left-field lengua

The report of my death is greatly exaggerated (if anyone still reads this blog)

2005-06-09T09:58:00.000-04:00

Anyone can comment now. Blogger account unnecessary.

A not-so-daily lick for your slobberly reading pleasure:
• Well, duh: Latinos blamed for 50% of the US population growth.
[via Morning News]

***
And now for Hitchin and Luna de Miel stuff:

If you're interested, you can see even more honeymoon pictures here.

Flickr shots tagged "Buenos Aires". (Much better than mine.)

And: our hotel. BA's official site.

Jimmy Legs has wedding photos on his flickr site. Check it out.

A.W. has weddding photos, too.

Phew.

What's new, Buenos Aires?

2005-05-16T06:44:00.001-04:00

We're back. Jessie's caught some airline cold. I've been kissing her. That means I'm not feeling so hot either. But, man, oh, man. What a time we had in BA. Beautiful. Inexpensive. Encouraging of smoking. And Tasty.

More on Flickr (and more to come)

The rufa, the rufa, the rufa's on fire!

2005-03-03T12:08:00.000-05:00

The introduction of one language’s lexicon into that of another’s is nothing new. Spanglish is an extreme example, a hybridization. It is the confluence of Spanish and English. It has never been foreign to me. I couldn’t name it until well into high school, even though I had heard it most of life. You see, I was my mother’s main English tutor—as a child. Imagine a 5 year old attempting to school his 20-something mother in a foreign lengua he only recently learned. It’s a situation ripe for comedic errors. And it was. (I got away with a lot of cuss words.) It was also beautiful, a linguistic playground where one, like myself, who is fluent in both languages can engage in stretching language through code switching learning more about either tongue.

I didn’t always feel this way. My mother’s propensity for saying things like espaghetti or sangwich once disgusted me. If I had learned Inglés proprio, why hadn’t she? Age slows things down, I didn’t know. And with age, I learned the value of word play, the use of vernacular in writing. You mean I can write in Spanglish? I asked myself after picking up an anthology of poetry from the Nuyorican Poets Café. Coño, that’s rad! The thing was I already knew you could sing in it (eg, the Pixies). I just didn’t make the connection.

I rarely speak Spanglish these days. And when I do, it can barely be classified as such. I speak the Puerto Rican dialect with my family. In some cases I supplement an English word when the Spanish word fails me. Other English words are commonly used in the Puerto Rican dialect. Hot dog. Brown. Other words are variations, misspellings, grammatical errors of Spanish words. Populacíon (poblacíon/population). Hamburguesa (hamburger). Supermercado (supermarket). Bloque (manzana/[street] block). Others are definitely dialect. Puerto Ricans have a propensity to drop “s” and “g” from words in Spanish. Esta (estas/state of being). Sabe (sabes/know). Whether that’s Spanglish is debatable. But not according to Ilan Stavans, the Mexican professor who is the foremost scholar on Spanglish. He states in his book Spanglish that these transformed signs are part of “a new American language,” a language that’s been in the making since conquistadores laid claims to the New World. He includes avocado in his mini-dictionary in the book’s middle section.

(a-voo-KA-do), exp., assimilationist. Used as the equivalent of an Uncle Tom. From the orig. a pear-shaped fruit, which comes from Nahualt ahuacatl. The term dates from 1697. Also ABOCADO.

Arroyo
Loco

These are also included. However he makes the distinction that, while these words are Spanish in origin, their common usage in English merit inclusion in a Spanglish lexicon. Akin to Yiddish, he notes. Mishmash, a Yiddish term, is also commonly used in English and can define Spanglish as well, removing it from comparisons to Ebonics.

I'd describe it more as cultural irrigation than cultural imperialism. The US is a laboratory of languages which are fertilizing themselves," says Ilan, who admits he speaks Spanglish with his children. He also points out that both Borges and Julio Cortazar were blamed for "polluting" the language. [...]

We're at the early stage of the formation of a new language, not unlike the emergence of Yiddish. Masterpieces have been written in Yiddish but, like Spanglish, the intellectuals were initially hostile.

OK. I can buy the Yiddish-Spanglish connection, Stavans, but loco and arroyo? Don’t push it, broder. You're jokiando, right?

He also argues that those protecting Castellano (High Spanish) from "barbaric mutations" need not worry. Spanish will not die. Spanglish is simply another form of communication borne from the verbal encounter between Anglo and Hispano civilizations. Playful. unique. So what if most of its vocabulary is the by-product of linguistic fuck-ups? Mistakes have a way of becoming the standard. Look at English.

How I wish I had stumbled across Stavans in high school. I would have applied to Amherst in order to study under him.

There’s even a Spanglish dictionary.

Üepa!

Shake your butt

2005-02-22T11:47:00.000-05:00

I need your assistance once again, faithful few. Jess and I are in the midst of compiling a playlist for the iPod DJ wedding reception. We would like dance music, rockin dance music. Decade no matter. Easy on the 'lectro. Slow songs covered. I have faith in you. Whaddya' got?

And congrats to Callalillie on her recent engagement.

Hotchpotch

2005-02-17T10:07:00.000-05:00

Andy Bowser of the PH blog dailyheights.com has an article about micro-news nabe blogs online.

And I thought a Whatchamacallit was just a candy bar, Gizmo a Mogwai. Woe is me; they're kadigans.
[via The Morning News]

The getaway car (ours'll be white, though):

On May 9, I'll have these in my grubby lil' hands:

Love by the Numbers

2005-02-14T09:39:00.000-05:00

Jess and I have been dating for one year today. Yeah, yeah...I know. Your first date was on V day? That was coincidence. V day is inconsquential. I've never been one for this saint's day-cum-commercial bloodletting. For one, why should I be guilted into loving someone more one day each year? (It's OK to love less every other day of the year?) Lame. It's essentially a holiday for straight women. Us straight males are guilted into bending over backwards to do the watoosi. Even lamer. I break my bank for no Hallmark holiday. (Shit, I don't even buy cards on Christmas.)

I will, however, and with everything I have, celebrate that Jess and I have now been together for one wonderful year. I am more in love with her than ever. Saturday showed me that.

We woke at 7 AM to get to my Woodside accountant by 10, only to realize he was closed. She didn't bat an eye. Instead she suggested we go the East Village. We spent all day together. Got coffee, purchased eyeglass frames for her and for me (yes, I now need to wear glasses.) at this little boutique on E. 9th Street, and walked and walked and chatted away the day, alone on the crowded city streets. All we did that day was hang out. In common parlance: It was awesome.

I love you, Jessie Salcedo.

Love Letters Numbers Vanity

2005-02-10T10:38:00.000-05:00

Saw a license plate on my way to work. Spanned across it was the word FAZZ. I saw the driver, too. It became clear to me then. Guess?

***

Thanks to everyone who has contributed to the Love by the Numbers playlist. You have been a great help; I couldn't have done this without you. (Keep them coming.) Here's the list thus far (order subject to change):

Book of Love—The Monotones
One is the Loneliest Number—Harry Nillson [LFL. note: really?]
With Whom to Dance—The Magnetic Fields
One—U2
Just the Two of Us—Bill Withers
Someday Some Morning Sometime—Billy Bragg and Wilco
I Would Die 4 U—Prince
All Together Now—The Beatles
5-4=Unity—Pavement
Hotel Yorba—The White Stripes
It Takes Two—Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock
Two of Hearts—Stacy Q
Three Times a Lady—The Commodores
When 2 R in Love—Prince
The Book of Love—The Magnetic Fields
Nothing Compares 2 U—Me First and the Gimmie Gimmies
Love Potion Number 9—The Drifters
867-5309—Blink 182
One on One—Hall and Oates

Ideas? Suggestions? Debasing drivel?

I need your help

2005-02-08T09:18:00.000-05:00

Bloggers and bloglandia addicts, I need your help. I need you to please tap into your extensive music gland for a large project: The Love by the Numbers CD mix. If you know any love songs that either have numbers in the title or in the lyrics, please post them in my comments or email me. I know you can do it. Rock it!

On the List
One is the Loneliest Number
Love Potion Number 9
All Together Now
When I'm 64
5-4=Unity
Someday Some Morning Some Time
Book of Love
The Book of Love
It Takes Two

And I like to fuck. It's a hoot!

2005-02-04T15:26:00.000-05:00

Much as been made about the Marine general that confessed "it's a hell of a lot of fun to shoot" some people". Why the explosive reaction? Seriously. While a high-ranking military officer ought to know when to keep his keep his trap shut, this man is still a soldier. And you know what? Soldier are not paid to think, they are paid to defend and, if necessary, to kill. Military culture is not the same as civilian/pop culture. Plato knew this.

Lt. Gen. Mattis should have know better but his statements are not surprising. Just dumb. Like a good little soldier.

Rizz-ults: If man is five...

2005-02-02T11:44:00.000-05:00

The results of the 2005 Idiotarod are up on the race's site along with links to photos and stories. Check 'em out.

Mas Mush: Gulp Ink

2005-02-01T08:00:00.000-05:00

It seems the Best in Show award was contested, meaning the Pirates of the High Cs almost didn't win. The other team up for the honor were the Octopussies. These ladies were equally deserving. With a homemade octopus whose tentacle ends were pockets for the runner's hands and jello shots, the Octopussies were my favorite cart. Those jello shots were a welcomed treat at the end of the race. Thanks, ladies. You rocked!

Now, if anyone has their contact information, we'd like to take those awesome women out for drinks. Please contact me at jose@ratedrookie.com.

Just not whiskey, kay?

Idiots are winners, too

2005-01-31T09:23:00.000-05:00

Shive me timbers! The 2005 Idiotarod was rough. We fell for a damn good sabotage right off the Brooklyn Bridge in Manhattan. Some shmuck was passing out flyers noting that the first checkpoint had been changed to a bar near South Street Seaport. DW fell for it, leading us off course. By the time we got to the first checkpoint, our team, the Pirates of the High Cs, was in last place. That's when the only good runner on the team stepped up to the plank and bribed a judge with a kiss. She fondled our cheeks and called us the "the most adorable" pirates ever. AB called her the hottest nurse ever. She took five minutes off our time. At the next checkpoint, AB bribed the judges with money, knocking 10 minutes off our time and moving us to the back of the middle pack. The route I chose ended up being the best possible one. No one followed us. I guess they thought going through Chinatown was a bad idea. It was the best possible idea. Our soundtrack of "Eye of the Tiger," "Cherry Pie" and "Bad" was a great motivator.

Oh, and we won Best of Show! Yarrr!!!!! Here are some photos courtesy of my sister, Pam.

please note, prior to several attacks, there was no duct tape on the outside of our cart. our ship was tight!

Also check out
Corie
Bluejake 1 & 2
Rion
untitled name
Lex
Flickr tag: idiotarod. (12 pages worth.)

Thank you, President Primate

2005-01-28T10:38:00.000-05:00

2005 is still a pup of a year. However, I'd like to add a word to next year's list of banned words: Mandate.

If I see that word in another news report, I'm liable to slip into a seizure.

Here's the current list of banned words.

Any other words you'd like stuck from the lexicon?

You've got your good thing and I've got mine

2005-01-27T13:44:00.000-05:00

I just received my recording of the Dec. 15 Pixies show I attended. I'm playing it now. It's beautiful. I'm amazed. The elation of finally seeing my all-time favorite band live has returned. Here's the set list.

But wouldn't you know it: In the photo on the inside, there's OMC. I'd of been there, too, if I hadn't gone to bathroom and been unable to return to the front.

Growing sea legs in the midst of a blizzard is just so foppish

2005-01-25T13:16:00.000-05:00

Heather was kind enough to document Saturday night's debaucherous pirating. Below are three of her photos.

Many little pirate OMCs make one big gay pirate.

This look is really becoming, isn't it?

Those lonely days on the poop deck led JoshB to self-love.

For the rest, please go to Noisefootprint.

The PH

2005-01-25T11:08:00.000-05:00

This morning I'd like to direct you all to the dailyheights.com. It's a blog dedicated to Prospect Heights, that liminal tract of land between all those up-and-coming nabes. The website covers every aspect of our little barrio, even including categories for streets and avenues. Check it.

Mush, or Doggy paddling in Titan's methane seas

2005-01-24T17:16:00.000-05:00

If a stray molecule of oxygen found its way onto the moon Titan, Ka-blooey! My head needs the same stray O, thanks to this weekend's festivities. Namely, the Gay Pirate Party a bunch of us threw for OMC (photo[s] TK). The food prepared by Jessie and her mom, Robin, was delicious. JB served some fruity grog. And Most of us were dressed in our gayest pirate threads.

I'm still not fully recovered. It's taking me longer to recupperate from hangovers as I age. Maybe I should be less festive? Umm.... No.

Instead, I'll plunge head first into what will surely result in an even worse hangover: The 2005 New York Idiotarod next Saturday, the 29th, Fulton Ferry Landing at 2 pm.

Come watch as I and many others pulll shopping carts from Brooklyn to Manhattan. There's alcohol involved.

I'm so going to regret this.

I'm back

2005-01-21T15:55:00.001-05:00

Better late than never, eh?

I figured out how to post my links on this new template, even how to post images. So, as I end my day, here's a short post (I'll get back to regular posting on Monday):

This afternoon I trudge up to the Village to check out a pet store. We need zip-up boots for the dog (Bob's photo below, courtesy of Jimmy Legs). Can't have rock salt getting into Bob-o's paw pads.

Also this afternoon, my future mother-in-law flew into town for the weekend. She'll be attending a party I'm co-hosting. This means Tomorrow night, she and I will be drunk together. Man, I'm nervous! All the things that could happen.

Things to do when you're not "feeling it"

2004-11-10T10:13:00.000-05:00

Things to do when you're not "feeling it"

My posts have been sparse as of late. They will continue to be so, if not non-existent. I'm taking a sabbatical from bloglandia and will return on the advent of the new year.

While I can't complain about my home life or social life, my life inside as been suffering from the soul-suckingness, neuronal death knell of my jobbo. I need to re-evaluate the blog, my long-term goals, particulars. I need to do something about it.

I'm off to the alpine spas where K and Fyodor D convalesced so well. Here's to circle seizures and cockroach nobility. When next we meet, I'll be a master of Continental Spanish comida.

Perhaps I'll have you over for rabbit paella.

Patronize my links.

Daily Licks

2004-11-02T10:38:00.000-05:00

Daily licks

• After being lauded by our president, Nobel laureate’s memoirs are banned from publication in the U.S. Of course Shirin Ebadi is suing the U.S. government.

• Remember it’s all your mother’s fault. The Times profiles Home-Along America, which seemingly blames working mothers for screwed-up kids. (The book's author disagrees.) I had a stay-at-home mother. That must be why I’m so well-adjusted.

• Define: Logic hotness

• Now, go vote.

Proper reward

2004-11-01T14:31:00.000-05:00

Proper reward

So, I get a tattoo and this weekend Jessie rewards me with a gift subscription to SuicideGirls.com. Dude. Cool ass shit. My baby rocks.

This weekend also found us in LIC, Queens. I started my life in New York there. I'm gonna begin a new life there, too. We're getting married at the Foundry, an old—you guessed it—foundry made of exposed brick and stainless steel. Just check out the website for the coolness.

Super Logic Hotness Babe continued her coolness streak with a Halloween Dinner of moldy, green artichoke dip, jack o' lantern tortilla chips, mashed potato ghosts (w/ black bean eyes), witch finger sausage links with red-dyed almond fingernails. bloody guts sloppy joes, and kitty litter cake, served in a litter box, of course. JoshB, A, and DW had a trouble stomaching the looks of the dessert. I think it was the slightly melted tootsie rolls that did it. I dove right in. The shit was yummy.

Total Logic Hotness.

Impulsive? Me? Maybe

2004-10-20T13:32:00.000-04:00

Impulsive? Me? Maybe

While I have a moment: Any good parlors to get a tattoo?

Likely excuse

2004-10-20T09:49:00.000-04:00

Likely excuse

Posts will be sporadic at best for the rest of the week. I've got three grant proposals and three news stories to write for work by Friday. When I've completed working in the salt mines of Kessel, I'm post on dining at blue ribbon and the old hag that spat on me. In the meantime, check out the sites to the bottom left. And go to the WYSIWYG show tonight. It's sure to be a hoot.

Guinea Pig: it's what's for dinner!

2004-10-19T17:26:00.000-04:00

Peruvians consume an estimated 65 million guinea pigs each year. It is a dining experience that normally requires two hands to pick scant, sinewy meat from a bony carcass — often with the head staring up from the plate.

But earlier this year, La Molina university started exporting the "Peruvian Breed" — faster growing, plumper, tastier guinea pigs — to the United States, Japan and several European nations that have large Peruvian immigrant populations.

I used to own one, but that wouldn't stop me for trying a morsel.

Wedding woes

2004-10-19T13:23:00.000-04:00

Wedding woes

Ever since Jessie’s father changed his offer, we’ve been scrabbling to find a site for the wedding and reception. A two-for-one location would be ideal, specifically a site that would not force upon us a caterer, other expenses tagged on after someone hears the word “wedding”. No dice thus far. The Boathouse is out of the question after a volunteered offer was knocked down 15Gs. (Nevermind that he stated he had been saving this money for Jessie’s wedding.) St. Marks in the Bowery is a possibility, but only on Sunday, May 8th. Ack! Who has a wedding on a Sunday?

Now, Jessie is at her wit’s end. Tired from all this porqueria.

I need suggestions. Any general wedding/reception ideas? Any restaurants that would be a good place for a wedding reception? Other locales for weddings in NYC. City Hall is not an option.

IKEA-Ho!

2004-10-18T16:21:00.000-04:00

IKEA-Ho!

Why I ever agree to go to the Elizabeth, NJ, IKEA is beyond me. It always turns out bad, with either Jess or I kvetching and moaning about the weight of the flatpacks or awkwardly angled furniture or how fucking long it takes to get there and back.

This Saturday was one such episode. We rose early and met A, eager to be good little consumerbots (The only reason to trek to the dirty Jerz.). It was 10 AM. Aside from the brisk wind and nippy temperature we were happy happy happy. The memories of our last visit to the Swedish purveyor of lacquered particleboard vaporized with the thousands of brain cells lost daily. I once again had some extra cash and knew we needed to replace the airstrip of a coffee table, the size of our living room. We were to split the cost and had a list of items, a strict list from which we could only slightly deviate.

Our time at the store was joyous. We had a skip in our step, jokingly bickering over tastes in furnishings.

Jessie (throwing up her arms): Why you like 70s crap and furniture that’s not really furniture...I just don't know. It’s a folding chair with tiny polka dots! It’s ugly. Gross.

Me (shocked, alarmed, you get the idea): Better something collapsible than some 200-lb overstuffed leviathan. Hey, check this out! Isn’t this cool? This is so cool.

Jessie rolled her eyes. I walked to the next display oblivious to the fact that I was about to mow over some soccer mom.

Jessie: Stop. You gotta be more spatially aware.

I just motioned for her to scooch along. We both laughed

A (suprised): Wow. If I ever did that, J would be furious.

We stocked our cart with our pre-determined items and other boberias we didn’t know we couldn’t live without until we saw them.

We waited for A to fetch a 78-lb secretary from furniture pickup then off to the shuttle bus. Hip hip. Hooray. Ninety minutes. It was 1:30 PM. Jessie had to be at work at 5 PM. Everything was going as planned. There was consumer glee and adherence to a timetable and fucking-awesome planning. (Jess and I brought two rolling carts and a shoulder bag each for our wares.) We would set up a new accumulations and beam with debit card pride at our thriftiness. Yes, we were rockin’ the economy and our fourth-floor two-bedroom walk-up.

Alas, Lincoln Tunnel traffic spite me—even after I complimented the construction of a ball diamond atop its Jersey exit. Miraculous use of space, much like what we were going to do to our place. Uepa!

Four hours after leaving IKEA we arrived at our Prospect Heights digs. Jessie ran out of the cab. She was going to be late to work. Dropping her load in the living room. I paid the driver and ran up after her, not realizing I had left my messenger bag (with a wall clock, picture frame, and credit card offers) in the cab’s front seat. An hour later I figured out why dunderheaded me couldn’t find the bag and immediately called 311 to file a report. The report is being processed today and I should (cross your fingers, people) have my bag and its contents returned to me.

Of course, the only course of action left to me: eat fish and chips at Soda then get drunk at Freddy’s while watching Motico jam out the rock.

Daily Licks

2004-10-18T11:26:00.000-04:00

Daily licks

• Black market editions of Garcia Marquez’s new books, Memories de Mis Putas Tristes, have led the publishers to release the book early. Read the Guardian report here.

• Irish Marxist academic rails against those that have slammed Derrida since his death.
English philistinism continues to flourish, not least when the words "French philosopher" are uttered. This week in the Guardian our home-grown intelligentsia gave a set of bemused, bone-headed responses to the death of Jacques Derrida. Either they hadn't read him, or they believed his work was to do with words not meaning what you think they do. Or it was just a pile of garbage.

• The international language: Mexican telenovelas (soap operas): a Russian-born reporter told her that gun battles raging in areas of unrest in the former Soviet Union would stop long enough for the combatants to take in the Mexican soaps.

De vera? The academies of the Spanish language have created a comprehensive reference text. The Pan-Hispanic Dictionary of Doubts, said representatives is the definitive dictionary on the Spanish language. (Article here.)

Experts have decided to accept those foreign words that are widely used. Some of them, like "camping" - which in Spanish is spelled "campin" - in modified form. Others, such as "jazz" and "ballet," have been adopted unchanged.

The Pan-Hispanic Dictionary of Doubts is based on language questions submitted to the Spanish Royal Academy Web site "Spanish for Today," launched in 1998.

The text aims to enable readers confronted with divergent usages to discern which are part of the standard language spoken and written by educated people throughout the Spanish-speaking world, which come from regional dialects and which are simply incorrect.

To emphasize the ongoing nature of the project, the dictionary will be posted on the Internet and updated frequently with the academies' consensus views on newly coined words and usages. Those views will also be based on consultation with some large Spanish-language media companies supporting the project, whose representatives met with academics last weekend in Madrid.

Daily Licks

2004-10-15T10:12:00.000-04:00

Daily Licks

• Hot damn—The Times writes about anal sex. Well, through the backdoor. I mean, it’s a book review.

• Gawker fklempt over Times' cocksucking of Roth.

• The French have yellow fever. Give highest honor to Chinese kung fu scribe. [via Bookninja]

• Titillated by title, Colombians groping pirated copies of Garcia Marquez's new book. [via GalleyCat]

• Prolonging the sexual pleasure: One in 100 adults asexual, according to Canadian researchers.

I don’t know about you, but I need a smoke now.

Dining question

2004-10-14T15:30:00.000-04:00

Dining question

Anyone been to the Blue Ribbon in Brooklyn? Any advice on what's good, what to avoid? (Beyond the Citysearch profile.) Anything?

I'm taking Jess there for a birthday dinner on Friday. Gimme words, please.

Daily Licks

2004-10-14T15:25:00.000-04:00

Daily Licks

Late. Hungover. Debate party. Cheap drinks. Ugh.

• The Morning News staff’s fall book picks

• Rolling on with the monument and award-happy folk: Edinburgh, First City of Lit. Next up, First City of Legalized Prostitution: Amsterdam!

Cerebrolingualclusterfuck

2004-10-13T17:31:00.000-04:00

Cerebrolingualclusterfuck

Being bilingual produces changes in the anatomy of the brain. So that's what's wrong with me!

Daily Licks

2004-10-13T10:11:00.000-04:00

Daily Licks

• Like comic book geeks and celebrity newsmagazines mourning over the death of Christopher Reeve, others are dolorous over the passing of Derrida. The Chronicle has a short piece on the bewildering and polarizing scholar, while a href=”http://www.bookninja.com”>Bookninja has a link to postmodern linguistahoops. [via Maud]

• Extreme ironing. No, looking at internet porn while your wife is in the wash or making a grilled cheese sandwich with the same iron doesn’t count.

• linguistic profiling It’s like caliente, mano. Chevere. Sorry, couldn’t help myself.

• Coming back to haunt you: diagramming sentences. [via Languagehat]

Welcome to the family, Jessie Salcedo

2004-10-12T13:39:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the family, Jessie Salcedo

I forgot to mention an important and telling ancedote about Parents Weekend: the Sponge Cake Incident. Prior to dinner at Moutarde, we congregated at Jess' parents B&B. There we drowned the Bday girl in presents. And a cake. A gaudy cake that seemed to be holding several pounds of icing. As Jess began to cut into it, I noticed a wall of icing was gonna splat into her lap. I placed my hand underneath it, caught and quickly stuffed my maw. What the..? Jessie was confused. The cake wasn't giving way. Everyone laughed. I was just as clueless. The knife seemed to bounce back. Sure enough, it was a sponge cake made with a real sponge. Welcome to the family, my parents said laughing. Later I asked why I wasn't let in on the joke. My mother said she knew I would taunt Jess about her "special cake" and she didn't want me to ruin her funny. That's my parents for you: silly jokesters.

Daily Licks

2004-10-12T13:26:00.000-04:00

Daily Licks

• What's up with Gawker? I keep getting an "Under Construction" page. Anyone else having a problem?

• The Boston Globe profiles Orhan Pamuk, the author of Snow. (I gotta get to that book.) [via The Morning News]

• The UK Guardian labels The Future Dictionary of America a "political act". Well, duh! I like this one by Nicole Krauss:

and-yet conj. pronounced as one word. Always used as a sentence alone: I thought it was impossible. And-yet. Or: I was prepared to leave. And-yet. To say "and-yet " can be to say: They told me I would grow up to be handsome. And-yet. Meaning, I know the truth, of course I do, even if I can't say it. "And-yet" can be a door left open. It sounds like nyet, "no" in Russian. But "and-yet" is never so decisive or emphatic. In two syllables it can sum up the existential doubt that's tied like a stone to each of us.

Daily Licks

2004-10-11T11:20:00.000-04:00

Daily Licks

• Derrida is dead, deconstruction thought would be shot and buried with him. Not.
Check out the Times obit. If you read French, here’s Le Monde’s obit. The Guardian also has an obit, but check out "Our debt to Derrida":

Jacques Derrida, the French scholar who died on Friday, had a dramatic impact on the study of literature in the postwar period. His theory of deconstruction has influenced - consciously or unconsciously - a great deal of modern scholarship and seeped inexorably into other arenas and media, from George Bush's election advertising to architectural criticism. Yet his theories remain controversial. For many, Derrida personified the worst type of "French fraud", in the manner of Jean-François Lyotard and Michel Foucault, impenetrable theorists who spouted nonsense. Yet much criticism of Derrida's work was cheap anti-intellectualism or a wilful distortion of his ideas. He should be remembered as a profound thinker who made a lasting contribution to intellectual discourse.
…
Part of the problem for Derrida's critics is that they sought to hang upon him all their fears of postmodernism and relativism. Much of this was unfair, since he could not be held accountable for the journeys to the wilder shores of theory by some of his supporters and fellow travellers. What was important was that deconstruction held that no text was above analysis or closed to alternative interpretation. It is no coincidence that it came into vogue in the 1960s and 1970s, when many cultural and social institutions were being challenged. As a result, Derrida became popular among those willing to question the sterile idea of a "western canon" who wanted to expand literary discourse so that writers such as Mary Elizabeth Braddon could sit alongside the Brontes. Thanks to Derrida, many new voices were heard.

• Anne Rice bares her fangs at bad reviews. To calls she would benefit from an editor, she writes:
I have no intention of allowing any editor ever to distort, cut or otherwise mutilate sentences that I have edited and re-edited, and organized and polished myself,'' she wrote. "I fought a great battle to achieve a status where I did not have to put up with editors making demands on me. Even George Lucas could use an editor.

• The Sunday Book Review "digs" yet another posthumous Kerouac tome:

The publication of ''Windblown World,'' a collection of Kerouac's early journals edited by Douglas Brinkley (a sober, well-known political historian who seems an unlikely candidate for the job), may at first strike readers as an attempt to squeeze yet more toothpaste out of Kerouac's flattened tube. Fortunately, the book is better than that. For one thing, unlike other posthumous volumes that have worn Kerouac's name, it's readable.

Daily Licks

2004-10-08T11:27:00.000-04:00

Daily Licks

I've decided to include a daily bulletin of lit and lengua stories, most of them a bit odd, in keeping with the title and theme of this blog. This is really a beta run. I'd like some feedback. For example, are they worth your time? Without further ado:

• Gabriel Garcia's new book may very well shock some of our prudish citizens. It's Spanish title is Memoria de Mis Putas Tristes. It will be released on Oct. 27. No news on the release date for the English version.

• The AP reports that The Grim Grotto by Lemony Snicket is number 1 on the WSJ Bestseller List. Roth's The Plot Against America is number 9. Anyone read a Snicket book?

• Crossing the Amazon: Google Print raises copyright concerns and cuts middleman down to size, the Times reports.

• City officials in Livermore, Calif will correct misspelled names on a library mosiac, including that of Einstein. The mosiac cost $40,000 but another $6,000 will be spent on implementing the changes. Anyone ever heard of an editor?

• Foreign doctors working in northern England will be given a dictionary of local slang in order to better facilitate proper health care. Among the words included are lugholes (ears), gipping (vomiting) and tackle (testicles).

I guess Jose Ramon Ralat Maldnado y Torres Sanz Garcia is out of the question

2004-10-08T09:36:00.000-04:00

I guess Jose Ramon Ralat Maldnado y Torres Sanz Garcia is out of the question

Those crazy Danes and their laws. And I thought I was a stickler for names.

Then in the 1960's, a furor erupted over the first name Tessa, which resembled tisse, which means to urinate in Danish. Distressed over the lack of direction in the law, the Danish government expanded the statute to grapple with first names. Now the law is as long as an average-size book.

Nobel prize in literature announced

2004-10-07T10:48:00.000-04:00

Nobel prize in literature announced

Austrian writer Elfriede Jelinek has been awarded the 2004 Nobel Prize in literature. According to the Nobel Prize website, "for her musical flow of voices and counter-voices in novels and plays that with extraordinary linguistic zeal reveal the absurdity of society's clichés and their subjugating power"

Having written novels, poetry, plays and radio pieces, "Jelinek has castigated Austria, depicting it as a realm of death in her phantasmagorical novel, "Die Kinder der Toten." Jelinek is a highly controversial figure in her homeland. Her writing builds on a lengthy Austrian tradition of linguistically sophisticated social criticism, with precursors such as Johann Nepomuk Nestroy, Karl Kraus, Odon von HorvDath, Elias Canetti, Thomas Bernhard and the Wiener Group."

Check out her personal site where a photo of a deer figurine is on the homepage.

On the prize, the reclusive author said "I hope I can enjoy the money that comes with this because then one can live without worrying. I also hope, however, it will not cost me too much."

Jelinek is only the ninth woman to win the award since its inception in 1901. The last women to receive the Nobel Prize for lit was Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska in 1996.

It's the new Esperanto, only better

2004-10-06T15:40:00.000-04:00

It's the new Esperanto, only better

This week the Village Voice ditched its pathetic "Book" section to make room for the "Best of NYC" detritus. In its stead the walker-and-cane set at corporated headquaters printed this:

Best new language—LESUHORVE

Words are such a pain in the ass. Wouldn't it be better if we could all communicate through color? Without the side effects of hallucinogenic drugs? Lucky for you, Daniel Wright has invented a new language and he'll teach it to you for $150. Essentially LESUHORVE (La-soo-hor-veh) looks like color bars on your TV set, but Wright says he chose this Technicolor template because color "plays a very important roll [sic] in psychologically and mentally controlling human emotion." On second thought, we'll take the acid.

And why does Nina Lalli have a grudge against Soda Bar?

Bigger and better. Now with more side effects

2004-10-06T11:48:00.000-04:00

Bigger and better. Now with more side effects

So much for tapering off my Lamictal. My new neurologist has decided to double my quark-particle dosage (100 mg/day, while the usual dosage is 500 mg/day) over the next two weeks. He thinks the antidepressant effects of the drug will improve my stressball self. And boy, have I been a BQE of nerves lately, what with the landlord losing rent checks, the visit by los viejos, my job, and the ubiquitous stomach churner: dinero. Initially, I disagreed with his decision. But an improved quality of life is always welcomed. And paraphrasing are president, who shows signs of mental disorder: Bring on the side effects!

Parents weekend: a review

2004-10-05T10:54:00.000-04:00

Parents weekend: a review

I’ve let my shoulders drop and I’m no longer chain-smoking due to nervousness. Parents Weekend is over. The Ringlands and Ralats met for the first time, we met our respective in-laws, and, whaddya’ know, they like one another, they like the coupling of two of their progeny.

My old man, assuaging mi Abuelo’s concerns over Jessie and whether she’s fit to marry me, replied: Let me put this in terms you can understand. He just won the lotto.

Ma and Pop Ralat arrived on Thursday evening. We dined at Soda, where Josh and A later joined us, tossed back a few and rushed home for the presidential debate before calling it an early night. Jessie’s folks, mom Robin and stepdad Jerome, flew in on Friday. We met them at the Howard Beach AirTrain station, which is some retro-futuristic Disney-fied structure in the middle of a neighborhood that might as well be Long Island. (And what’s with that fucking car-alarm announcing the arrival of the shuttle?)

Pam made dinner. There was much wine consumed. The mothers dispensed embarrassing anecdotes about their offspring. Saturday…Saturday…I oh, yeah. The ladies ran off to Saks where Jess was picking up a flapperesque headband, or so I’m told, for the wedding. Jerome, my dad and I checked out the Trump Tower on Fifth at Jerome’s request. Afterward, we scarfed burgers at the Burger Joint.

When Jessie told me of the plan to separate by sex on Saturday, I was more than a bit reticent. Would I like Jerome? Would he like me? How would three men with accents understand one another? My dad’s thick Puerto Rican accent, Jerome’s French, my bland American. But red meat brought us together. Nothing like drink and the bloody muscle tissue of a domestic animal to bring men together. There was no grunting, only the giving of advice (You can be right or you can happy.) I sat quietly slipping my beer between juicy bites of beef. We were all happy to have some quiet. Robert Bly would be proud.

The carefree afternoon soon became a night of excess and revelry. Everyone dressed to the nines for the opening of gifts and Jessie’s Birthday dinner at the Park Slope bistro Moutarde, one of Jessie’s faves. There was beer. There was wine. There was steak frites and escargot. There were pork chops and chicken with thyme sauce. Laughter. Then food coma.

Jessie’s ‘rents were leaving on Sunday evening, so that morning we brunched and ambled through the Sixth Avenue flea markets while Pam shuttled Pepito and Cuquí to the Beer Garden. We would finally have some much needed peace and quiet. And it was good. Jessie and I watched Star Wars Episode 4 on DVD. It was her first time seeing it. She, to my surprise, actually liked it.

My folks left yesterday ecstatic and relieved.

All in all, it was an A+ weekend, one that could have gone south from the start. I’m no longer nervous, just tired—but happy.

Self-inflicted, and then some

2004-09-28T10:08:00.000-04:00

Self-inflicted, and then some

This weekend we held a stoop sale. Saturday was the big money-making day. We also had the opportunity to meet and chat with all the new kids in the building—most of whom are girls, and lesbians at that. It's a sign that the neighborhood's over, said A, who eschewing work Saturday decided to sit with me at the sale, drinking beer and playing chess. Once the lesbians come, it's totally over. Look at Park Slope.

He's wrong, of course. The very next day I watched my landlord's tires get slashed by some former tenants. (The argument, I'm told, was about the kids loitering on our stoop. All day and all night. He doesn't want them there. The don't live there. They bring crime, he says. The kids cited our stoop sale. Then why can they hang out there? Oh, Mr. Landlord! It's my building. I can do what I want. Cue tire slashing.

Two good things came of this. One: the aforementioned meeting of the neighbors. Two: The building's owner called me Sunday night to stress that his tenants can do what they want. If want to have a stoop sale every weekend, Jose, have one. I don't care. If you want to BBQ in the backyard, I don't care. I want to encourage a good atmosphere. D and I immediately hatching plans for an herb garden next season.

Now, to something more on topic: Check out this link to get a rundown on Spanish surnames and the endless string of 'em. For example—and I know this won't be the last time—my last name is Ralat, not Maldonado. Gabriel Garcia Marquez's last name is Garcia, not Marquez. Federico Garcia Lorca's last name is Garcia, not Lorca. You can get away with saying both, though. Garcia Marquez. Garcia Lorca. Ralat Maldonado.

Back to the pre-Packard days with Jack

2004-09-24T09:54:00.000-04:00

Back to the pre-Packard days with Jack

The NYTimes has a day trip travel piece on Jack Kerouac's Lowell, MA. While Kerouac was an early influence on my decision to make the slow, hard slog to becoming a writer, his prescence in my life, my writing is a historical footnote. That doesn't minimize his contribution to American letters. The man had a superb command of language and punctuation. On the Road is a classic.

Sin verguenza

2004-09-23T09:21:00.000-04:00

Sin verguenza

There are updates about Tuesday's reading on the WYSIWYG blog. One thing I forgot to mention about the reading was as I speaking with Allison, Nichelle Newsletter asked to take my photo. That was very nice. It was the first photo I know of where my tongue wasn't sticking out the right side of my mouth. Guess I was too nervous or surprised.

But as Jessie said this morning: You're so absent-minded. You know you have to do something, acknowledge it, then it's gone. Flit, flit.

Now, everyone should come to our stoop sale this weekend. We've got, housewares, kitchenware, women's clothes, tchotchkas, a tiffany lamp—and, get this, a full-size bed, frame and all!

contact me at myname-at-ratedrookie.com.

WYSIWYG Wrap-up

2004-09-22T09:37:00.000-04:00

WYSIWYG Wrap-up

Thanks to everyone who showed up for last night's reading. It was a hoot. Thank you, Chris for the opportunity. And I wasn't first; I was second! I enjoyed everyone's contribution and imagination, especially Delfino's coloring book. This time, the line-up was largely relegated to seating stage right. I enjoyed that, as some of us got to chat before and after the reading. Blogger's can be such solitary figures, spending so much time before a monitor, shielded from any sense of community. Emily and I spoke about a mutual acquaintance (connected via Rated Rookie), whom we agreed is absolutely annoying and is the sole reason "poseur" ought to be re-introduced into the vernacular. Glenn and I related are distastes for certain foods (me: ice cream, he: popcorn). We were all nervous. I offered cigarettes, but had no takers.

I stuttered during my slot, but not as much as my first appearance at the reading series. My story (below) wasn't heartbreaking this time. People actually laughed, which shocked me. I don't consider myself funny or witty, but shared experience often elicits laughter.

After the reading, I was approached by Allison, of The Brazilian Muse. She complimented my performace. Of course, I froze after recognition. (I don't take compliments well). Still, it was nice.

Then I was off to see Motico and Sxip!Matta jam at Lit.

And finally, the story:

Two Episodes in Catholicism

1. Diana Conti
Pha-ka-ta. She sucker punched me. Diana Conti sucker punched me, and I couldn’t have been happier. Recess was cool. In second grade, Diana Conti’s hips were already well-defined. She was hot, a hot Catholic schoolgirl whose copper skin and matching, thick hair brought forth tiny, pubeless boner in my church-issued slacks. I dreamed of Saturday morning cartoon make-out sessions. She could be Smurfette. I could be Horny Smurf.

Then Diana socked me. I went down, my vision fuzzy. I looked up to see to her straddling my waist and pounding her smooth brown fist into my stomach. Hallelujah. Diana had me by the hair and was slamming my head into the ground.

Why are you smiling?

Cuz, Diana, it really doesn't hurt. It's kinda fun.

Fine. Take this, then. Pha-ka-ta, she walloped me again.

Phwa-ka-ta.

You’re sexy, Diana

You're mine, Jose Ralat

Phwa-ka-ta. Phwa-ka-ta. Phwa-ka-ta

She stopped and brushed her thick hair from her face, revealing a sly grin of approval. So, I did what I thought anyone would do, I grabbed her jumper and pulled her down on top of me, kissing her. She kissed back.

The next Saturday on a Youth Choir field trip at the roller rink.

2. Father Klump
Overcome by the grandeur of St. Peter’s, the stone upon which Charlemagne had been crowned, the carved serifs high above the pews, which were, I was told were thirty feet tall, I decided to confess. My traveling partners had tried to dissuade me. Dude, that's cool and all, but when was the last time you went to Church, said one. You'll regret it, said another. But citing my Jesuitical religious upbringing, I declared Catholicism a religion where love reigns freely. I wasn’t going to confess, per se. Rather, I was going to discuss with the padre my long absence from the Church and my desire to re-join the fold. A schedule with the presiding priest and the language to be used during the sacrament was posted on the door. I had five minutes and decided to wait in the confessional. For Father Klump. K-l-u-m-p.

Then I met Father Klump. And he was no Jesuit, but some crotchety, hunched-back ol’ bugger of an American in the warren of dogmatic detritus.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…it’s been…. Tell you the truth, Father, I don’t know when I last confessed. Heh.

He tried coaching me along with the protocols until I said, Look, Father, I didn’t really come in here to confess. I would like to discuss the fact that I feel ready to re-join the Church. I’ve been away a long time.

Behind the screen, Father Klump frowned and sighed.

There are two things that define a Catholic. First, you must attend Mass every Sunday without fail. Secondly, you must believe that Christ came down to earth to purposefully establish a new religion. Can you do that? Do you believe that?

Actually, Father….

He growled, raising his voice a bit. Can you do that? Do you believe that?

Jesus Christ did not come to earth to specifically form a new religion, no. Jesus was a Jew who simply wanted to reform, not a breakaway.

He was no stinking Jew, boy! These things are not up for debate. You don’t debate in the confessional. Do you understand me?

Yes, sir. I was beginning to regret my decision.

I decided to try another tact, one more academic. That’s when I fucked up.

But what about the fact that St. Thomas Aquinas said, God is every… I wouldn’t have time to discuss the Thomistic theory of the divine life force. Klump had had enough.

What the hell does the Thomas Aquinas have to do with anything.

What the hell does the Thomas Aquinas have to do with anything.

What the hell does the Thomas Aquinas have to do with anything.

I stuttered and stammer in my attempt to respond, but was too flabbergasted. I had never heard a priest cuss. Priests didn’t cuss. They were above that, right? I was going white.

Finally, I put two words together: A lot.

What the hell does the Thomas Aquinas have to do with anything.

What the hell does the Thomas Aquinas have to do with anything.

What the hell does the Thomas Aquinas have to do with anything.

You’re no Catholic, boy. Get out!.

Anagnorisis: it all becomes clear

2004-09-21T09:25:00.000-04:00

Anagnorisis: it all becomes clear

At first I thought it was some sort of cold/flu, that knotted, nauseating feeling gathering at the base of stomach near the opening to my intestines, or at the very least another bout of my GI troubles. But, no. Yes, I was sick. Yes, the upset stomach had, in part, been GI trouble, as a result of constant anxiety. Let's not, forget that case of severe tinea pedis. (Wash. Dry thoroughly with gauze. Apply ointment. Take pill.) How do I go to a job where I am barely tolerated, where the can't fire but wish they could? I'm a damn good editor, man! My talents are wasted daily for what? My boss even acknowledges I should be making 20k more. And he hates me. How do we cover the wedding costs now that Jessie's dad has pulled out most of his initial offering? (Real trustworthy, that guy!) Will the Tennis House work just as well as the Boathouse for the ceremony? How do I pay for this and that and another stuff? DJ? Live band? Food: what kind?; how much? Groom's cake? Wish that schmuck would scoot over and not take up two seats? Can't be comfortable. Why does that kid always ask me for money or a smoke? He's got nicer shoes than I do. Do I really need to get up today? And then there's tonight's WYSIWYG reading, which you are expect to attend. Or else we're gonna have to rumble? Watching me make an ass of myself is a doozy of a pasttime.

I do pretty well at daily activities, though. Something I've learned after self-titrating off the menagerie of meds. Does the good life have to be that expensive, anyway? Fuck Pfizer. Fuck Glaxo and Eli Lilly. Fuck me, this has got to stop. Cigarettes don't even taste as good anymore. The luster: Where the hell is the luster?

I have begun taking steps, planning. My life will be better soon, through my own machinations, a wide, strong support system. I am writing more, just not as much on this blog. Here's to love, the kind that looks at your cracked, pussing feet and loves you all the more, the kind that dotes on you even while you pull up the covers over your faces after a stinker. Part-and-parcel amory

Zap zap. Fizz. Hello there, Mr. Serotonin. Good day, Dopamine, ma'am. Pass the Maille, Norepinephrine. Whoa there, this pathway is closed. Renovations and all. GABA, baba, gobbledy-gook. Enough, bub, I'm switching gears, walking headlong into a plan. Thank you, Mr. Garcia Marquez. Your recent antics have been a great help. Why spell "Hola" with an "H"? The pinche letter is silent!

7:30 in the school basement. Don't be late. You'll get a worse beating for it.

2004-09-20T21:39:00.000-04:00

7:30 in the school basement. Don't be late. You'll get a worse beating for it.

That's right, folks, another installment of the famed WYSIWYG Talent Show blogger reading series will be held on Tuesday, Sept 21 at 7:30. As always it will be held at P.S. 122. This month's theme, if you haven't already gleaned it from this post's title, is Bullies and Mean Girls. I will be one of the readers/performers/masochists. (Please, God, I hope I'm not first this time.)

Other much cooler people reading are:
Mike Daisey
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Glenn B.
Standard Deviance
Emily Gould
Jessica Delfino

How to get to the show:
P.S. 122 is located at 150 First Avenue at 9th St. (accessible from the #6
at Astor Place or the L at First Avenue). Tickets are $7 and can be
purchased at the door or in advance at the P.S. 122 box office at 212-477-
5288 or online at Ticketweb (http://ticketweb.com).

Blech

2004-09-17T11:39:00.000-04:00

Blech

For the past two I've been suffering from some sort of cold/flu. I've even had to pass up free beer—the nerve of my immune system! Jessie is now sick as well. Last night I slept on the couch in an effort to reduce any more cross-contamination. It's probably futile, which just freakin' blows, man. We also won't kiss one another. This sucks. Just sucks.

Anyway, it's Friday. I'm gonna go home and rest. Perhaps, if Jess is feeling up to it, we'll check out a movie. I'm dying to see Hero. Any other suggestions? I also need to get crackin for the WYSIWYG reading next Tuesday. I'll be reading along with a bevy of talented bloggers. Hot shit!

Come check ou the reading then amble over to the Motico show at Lit Lounge. Sxip!Matta will be performing, too!

The straphanger's code

2004-09-14T09:25:00.000-04:00

The NY Times has posted an article on a subway experiment dating by to the '70s. The test: Ask people if you can have their seat. And just for the record: When fellow subway riders have asked me, I have given up my seat. Here's a choice passage:

As for why door blockers, pole huggers and other egregious violators of subway etiquette do not experience the same opprobrium, perhaps another study is in order.

Don't forget this week's def posted yesterday.

Week's def

2004-09-13T09:41:00.000-04:00

Week's def

Knock yourselves out with this: anagnorisis.

Belated wknd roundup and the Post does something useful

2004-09-10T09:15:00.000-04:00

Belated wknd roundup and the Post does something useful

The Labor day holiday was much needed and welcomed. Again I spent Friday in Queens. Jambalaya had just returned from Greece, so it was back to cards and SG-1. Saturday was day o' romance. From our usual breakfast at Tom's, we headed into the city for a romp through the Museum of Sex, where I was revolted by the extensive exhibit on foot binding. The pain of such a procedure aside, who knew molding your feet into hooves was sexy? Lotus flower, my ass. Next we dined on sushi and hiked across town to a late showing of Vanity Fair at the Ziegfeld. We got home at 2 AM and hit the hay. Sunday we got up late and rode the A to Washington Heights for a picnic at Cloisters. I've lived in New York for six years but had never gotten any farther than admiring the museum from its lawn. After the meal, which featured a klezmer band on the museum's south lawn, Jess and I wandered through the small galleries of the building constructed from the remnants of other convents, abbeys, and monasteries. Gorgeous. And a bit of a trip down memory lane. I spent the fall of '96 in the Sud Tirol, Italy's northernmost region were German is more common than Italian. In my three months there I traveled throught the country, viewing medieval churches chockfull of frescoes, tapestries, and sculptures. Lovely.

Halfway through the Cloisters I got a call from my father in Florida. They had been without power since 11 AM that morning. They would be without for three to five days. But the water supply wasn't tainted. There was no property damage. Phew!

After the jaunt through the Middle Ages we trekked into Queens for dinner at Uncle George's. I hadn't been back in four years, and although the prices are a little higher—what isn't these days?—it was just as delicious. I had the shredded pork with spinach rice, fresh lemon spritz over it all and enticing the flavors out to flit and flirt on my tongue. The cheap and chilled Cretan wine helped, too. The same waiters were there. I even chatted with one.
How was it?

Delicious, as always. It's great coming back after four years.

Four years! Why so long, my friend?

I live in Brooklyn now.

The waiter with a look of horror: Well, that's a world away. You might as well live in Greece

Verging on a food coma, we then retired to the Beer Garden where once seated in the backyard we were treated to a twenty-five minute power outage.

Finally home, we crashed a little tipsy and got up at noon the next day salivating in anticipation of Jimmy Legs and Buzz's backyard BBQ. The kielbasa! The ribs! The franks! The beer! Oh my. A great holiday. (Pictures here.)

This morning, however, I amble into my usual breakfast hole to find a box of Huck Finns next to a stack of Posts. Evidently and on the coattails of the Times' summer reading series, the slimiest fishwrapper in the city is publishing a series of 15 books each Monday. The first is free with a purchase of the paper; the rest are $5.99. I didn't buy the paper, just walked of the cafeteria with a copy of the novel. Without stopping, I bent down, picked up a book and walked out the door. Smooth, I thought.

Ambling uptown

2004-09-02T10:07:00.000-04:00

Ambling uptown

I've not involved myself with any of the recent RNC protest. I have an old friend that's going to soon be working for the government with a Tower of Babel high clearance level. I'm one of his references. If I just happen to be cuffed in plastic and dragged off to little Gitmo, I would be endangering his chances. And the brother deserves this job. He's been working his hairy ass off for this job. I will not be a black mark on his record.

But yesterday I decided to take a walk after work. I languidly strolled uptown to Union Square, where I witnessed to the 900-someodd shoes on the steps of the park. They represent the fatal casualties in Iraq. Callalillie has two nice photos. Fourteenth street was calm otherwise. The greenmarket vendors were doing brisk business. I continued up Park Ave So, eventually cutting diagonally north through Madison Square Park and up Fifth Ave. It was 3:30 pm. I had two hours kill before checking out the 95 voices presentation in front of library's main branch on 42nd Street. My sister took part in the art project, so I wanted to see what the deal was.

Fifth Avenue was deserted with the exception of the cadres of cops directing traffic. I smoked my Camels and kept walking, passing the library's lions by ten to four. I was hungry and had been nibbling on some herb focaccia I picked up at Union Square's market. It wasn't enough. I needed substance. Mr. Softee? Nah. I'd be sick. Damn lactose. An Irish pub? Nah. Overpriced. Then I hit 45th Street. Fire trucks. Paddy wagons. Ambulances. Two hundred cops. And blocked sidewalks. Pedestrians were herded behind caution tape, with the Hasidic diamond merchants totally freaking out. Diamonds this. Diamonds that Yiddish or Hebrew. Then: Terrorists! Doubtful, I thought to myself until I encountered a friendly looking face. What the problem? Suspicious package, he said. Neither of us stopped walking during the exchange. He was heading downtown; I had decided to cut across Rock Center and call upon my sister at her office on Sixth Ave. It was five o'clock, anyway. Off to the library. There we witnessed some Falun Dafa protesters. Little old ladies were made up as examples of the PRC's treatment of jailed Falun practicioners. Two young women in patriotic garb and rockets protruding from their crotches were gyrating their hips between the stoic stone lions.

The 95-voicers showed up. I saw Pam's answer and was chatting with some mutual friends when something, actually someone, went down on the southeast corner of 42nd Street and 5th Avenue. A business-dressed man had been pushed off his bike and into a news kiosks by some cops on Vespas. He was yelling I was on my way to a meeting. Call me law office. The National Lawyers Guild observers were oblivious to this action; they were busy flirting with the hippie hipsters holding up the 95 voices signs. The lawyers shouting attracted the attention of other lawyers, who intervened on his behalf, attempting to have him released. No dice. The man was calmly hauled away.

For more on recent RNC-related info check out:
NYC Indymedia
Gothamist
Josh on the Bike Bloc
Jimmy Legs on a friend's jail time
And Callalillie on a near miss

Think, think, think

2004-08-31T12:00:00.000-04:00

Think, think, think

We'll I'm back. And thanks to the RNC, I have an abbreviated work week and a four-day weekend. Hoorah! Gotta be quick, though. There are a gazillion medical references to check.

Deffie
Gray matter (n): A portion of the central nervous system containing predominantly neuronal cell bodies. The relative lack of myelinated axons makes gray matter less opaque than surround areas containing fewer cell bodies and more myelinated fibers (white matter). It refers to the tissues of the brain that make up the cortex. Contrast with white matter.

Before I sign off, I'd like your advice and/or suggestions. In lieu of going away this weekend, Jessie and I are opting to take advantage of New York. We're going to visit and see as many of the things we have taken for granted thus far. On the possible agenda are the Bronx Zoo, Governors Island, The Cloisters and St. John the Divine. Who knows? We may even check out the Empire State Building's observation deck.

Any other ideas, folks? Any parties? Chime in.

bleary-eyed and slammed

2004-08-24T13:25:00.000-04:00

bleary-eyed and slammed

I'm inundated with ship day this week. Finalizing a neuroscience periodical is a thankless, arduous job. In the meantime, here's a term for your def enjoyment:

Gray matter.

Enjoy.

And another thing: Thank you

2004-08-18T17:12:00.000-04:00

And another thing: Thank you

Saturday's party was a success. Our small two-bedroom apartment was so packed with people (25-30), we annexed the fourth-floor landing for the night. There was Brooklyn beer, six bottles of wine, mojitos, tequila, and more beer. Thanks to everyone who came and gave us a little gifts. I was especially excited by the hot purple pepper plant from Josh B and A. Then I was shocked when folks started putting cash in our hands. Really, that's remarkable. Cash? Unexpected.

Since the party began at 7 pm, most bid good night at 2 am. But not me, Yoshi, or Whitehead, Jessie's bridesmaid. No, siree. Yoshi crashed at 3:30 am and Whitehead and I were up till 4:30 am. One word: Awesome.

I do regret one thing, though. I didn't make a toast. I should've toast Jessie.

But, oh, Sunday...not awesome.

Not yesterday's but the other yesterday's news

2004-08-18T10:39:00.000-04:00

Not yesterday's but the other yesterday's news: il miglior fabbro

The Guardian Unlimited Books page reports on long-due props from old Ez. Whatever your view on Ezra Pound (lunatic, antisemite, fascist), he was one of the most influential personae of 20th century letters. His love of languages and experiment led to his boosting other writers (H.D., Joyce, Williams, and Eliot among them).

Much of my love for playing with language is due to him. His Cantos, with its mesmerizing Italian, Greek, Latin, Spanish and Egyptian heiroglyphs, was a frustrating dream for me, but a dream nonetheless.

I have his daughter, Mary de Rachewitz, to thank for that. I spent three months in college at her castle, Brunnenburg, in the Sud Tyrol studying his work and much of the source material as the resident librarian.

It's about time Pound received some plaudits. What are your thoughts on Pound?

Some Pound resources
Introduction to Pound by C. Bernstein
Cantos LXXXI
MAP's Ezra Pound Page
AAP's Ezra Pound Page

And a favorite poem
Ancient Music*

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

*A parody of the Anglo-Saxon poem, Cuckoo Song

Horrifying

2004-08-13T10:51:00.000-04:00

Horrifying

My parents ran from the PR. These folks were running to it, resorting to cannibalism and the drinking of breast milk.

[via The Morning News]

Fortunately, it ain't J-horror

2004-08-12T17:19:00.000-04:00

Fortunately, it ain't J-horror

Pictures of the ring and the body attached to it.

If it were up to me, we'd all be family

2004-08-12T08:55:00.000-04:00

If it were up to me, we'd all be family

For the last couple of days I've been sulking around conflicted. I've felt guilt (as a good, or rather, bad Catholic boy should) and anger. Saturday's celebration of our engagement, graciously hosted by my sister, has become a complicated mess. We (Pam, Jessie and I) knew from the outset the party would need to be small. You see, it's a matter of ettiquette (damn rules!). Those invited to the engagement party are automatically invited to the wedding. Our wedding has to be small due to cost and maximum capacity at our chosen location. That means family comes first—and, boy, is there a lot of fam! What happens when two kids of Latino extraction decided to get married? Their obscenely large families get together. (It sick the way Catholics propagate. Someone should put a stop to it.)

Anyway, my point is that the guest list for the wedding has proved to be the most difficult part of the planning. That cursed thing's not even complete yet, and won't be till the new year. If I could have my way, all of my dear friends would be considered family and, therefore, be invited to both functions. The engagement party would be fete en par with the housewarming party at casa ku last Jan 31. Alas, it isn't my call only. I am not purposefully trying to offend you.

But don't fret, mi amigos, I have a plan. Everyone is invited to the engagement party. Just come later, like after 10 or 11. Here's the but: You gotta understand that the wedding guest list is a work in progress. Please don't be offended if at its finalization we are unable (due to family, cost, and space) to invite you to the wedding. I just want to be clear.

In light of these fucking-A facts, Jess and I plan on having a housewarming party in the near future. We hope you will all come for that. And, there will be an afterparty at the hotel with the bridal block of rooms on the hitchin' day.

Items

2004-08-11T11:48:00.000-04:00

Items

Thanks to everyone for your kind words. And don't worry, folks. If you didn't get an invitation via post to the engagment party, we're planning a housewarming party in the near future. (Everyone's invited to that.)

In other wedding-related news, CNN reports on an incident of cannibalism at a wedding reception. But, really, it was just a drunken misunderstanding.

I'd also like to thank everyone's proposed definitions for the last word. Here's the official definition:

Salmagundi: A salad of chopped meat, anchovies, eggs, and onions, often arranged in rows on lettuce and served with vinegar and oil. A mixture or assortment; a potpourri. [F. salmigondis, of uncertain origin; perhaps from L. salgama condita, pl.; salgama pickles + condita preserved (see Condite); or from the Countess Salmagondi, lady of honor to Maria de Medici, who is said to have invented it; or cf. It. salame salt meat, and F. salmis a ragout.] Hence, a mixture of various ingredients; an olio or medley; a potpourri; a miscellany. --W. Irving.

dkjdkjakjdkj;lkajoiaoi uijkj

2004-08-09T15:59:00.000-04:00

dkjdkjakjdkj;lkajoiaoi uijkj

It's here! The ring is here! It's in my grubby little hands. Will I have enough will power to wait until Saturday's engagement party to re-propose in front of everyone? Or will I give in to the disarming beauty of the woman I wish to wake next to every morn from here on out?

I don't know. What I do know is that I'd like to open to the box, but it's tied with ribbon. I'm no good at tying knots and ribbons. Sheesh.

I will spend the next 1.5 hours staring at the box.

Senorita Salcedo, te amo, te adoro, te deseo. Mi corazon, mi vida, mi mundo.

My name is George and my favorite color is clear

2004-08-05T15:13:00.000-04:00

My name is George and my favorite color is clear

From CNN: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we," Bush said.

"They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we."

From Middle Earth and sloppy meat porridge to children's rhyme and gobbledegook

2004-08-04T09:42:00.000-04:00

From Middle Earth and sloppy meat porridge to children's rhyme and gobbledegook

Yes, you may have some more: SALMAGUNDI. It's this week's word.

Now I must learn to write a grant proposal by tomorrow morning so I can get money for drugs. This is work-related, natch.

Jovenes and Def Game

2004-08-03T09:58:00.000-04:00

Jovenes and Def Game

Last night, AT and I were sitting in beach chairs on my fourth-floor landing. We had just finished eating a yummy PR dinner of black beans and pastelillos. I was smoking a cigarette, and AT was speaking about his recent trip to PR. He said the women were so fucking gorgeous he was constantly trying to hide is erection.

This morning's Gothamist interview with author/editors Robyn Moreno and Michelle Herrera Mulligan touches upon this subject and other Latina-related themes:

A hot piece of ass. Seriously, the problem with having two Latina actresses in Hollywood (besides the maids and “sad girls”), is that Salma and JLo define Latin for a lot of people. In our book, we offer 20 stories of modern, intelligent women’s lives. But there are 20 million Latina stories out there, and we feel this is just the beginning.

The deffies [via Wordspy]
fricative: A consonant, such as f or v, produced with a continuous airflow through the mouth. This word sounds like an adjective that means something along the lines of "lurchingly nervous." Instead, it's one of the many nouns linguists use to describe language sounds. In English, there are seven fricatives in all: f, h, s, sh, th, v, and z. It's somehow reassuring to me that the word "fricative" itself has its own small fricative population.

chugger: A professional fundraiser who approaches people on the street to ask for money on behalf of a charity.

Thanks to those that posted alternative definitions.

Reasons 648 and 720 why I am an idiota

2004-08-02T11:39:00.000-04:00

Reasons 648 and 720 why I am an idiota

After acquiring cable on Friday, I wanted to spend Saturday drinking and lobotomizing my brain with droll TV. And, boy, did I ever. By five o'clock I passed out for about twenty minutes, only to wake up needing more beer. That's when Josh called declaring we needed to bid adieu to our favorite honky tonk, the Village Idiot. The cheap-o shots and pitchers were too enticing for me to refuse. Memories of our debaucherous nights there had to be honored one last time. Here, here for history and tradition. And machismo.

Let's toast and try to break our beer mugs, Josh announced. First A.W. and Josh tried, but timidity was stronger. Next A.C. and Josh tried once. A.C. said he wouldn't try again.

I'll do it. And on the first try, Josh and I succeeded. The top half of my beer mug shattered and met an end similar to the one the bar would. The middle finger on my right hand fared no better: receiving a gash thanks to some liberated glass. Josh retrieved some napkins for me. Pressure was applied. Bleeding stopped. Drinking commenced. All was good. All this and I was sober. Chalk it up to history and tradition. Definitely not one of my prouder moments

The second reason I am an idiot involves the Yankees. A friend's mother sent me some tickets she'd won. They were free and I haven't been to a game this season. It was high time to go, even if it was the Yanks. On Sunday morning (game day) it was raining steadily and with force. Surely the game would be cancelled, I thought after confirming with Accuweather. It was going to rain on and off all day. Josh and I conferred and I called the trip to Bronx off. At noon it stopped raining for the entire day.

While "um" is ranked at 9,278, "like" is at 67

2004-07-26T09:58:00.000-04:00

While "um" is ranked at 9,278, "like" is at 67

The editors of The Morning News are back from vacation and they have posted a link to the 86,000 most frequently used words in the English language. I may be a little preoccupied with this site today. Take a gander. Post your favorites as comments here.

And don't forget the def game is still open. (See Friday's post.)

When you can't screw 'em, give 'em a plant

2004-07-23T08:38:00.000-04:00

When you can't screw 'em, give 'em a plant

All of you have renewed my interest in the game. Everyone did a swell job. You took the bait and ran with into sticky, red-lighted corners I never would have dared traversed. Well done.

So, without further ado, the anticlimax: perennial shower (puh.REN.ee.ul show.ur) n. A bridal shower where the guests bring perennial plants as gifts. [via Word Spy]

Surfer Guy/Yo Mamma is still eligible for a free meal at Hacienda Ralat. Email me.

Next up a two-fer:

1) chugger
2) fricative

And trust me, they're not what you think. Enjoy them over the weekend and the first part of next week. Ciao.

Practice makes perfect

2004-07-22T12:14:00.000-04:00

Practice makes perfect

The def game is still going strong. Keep 'em coming. I'll post the real def tomorrow.

In the meantime, check out this story from CNN: Report: Bigger breasts offered as perk to soldiers.

I just love this: "The magazine quoted an Army spokeswoman as saying, 'the surgeons have to have someone to practice on.'"

C'mon, people, release your inner perv and greenthumb

2004-07-21T17:03:00.000-04:00

C'mon, people, release your inner perv and greenthumb

Travis was the only one to post a definition for the last word (perennial shower). His was a goodun', too:

A perennial is a flower type and a shower is when something is sort of raining down, so a perennial shower is something that is often used to enhance the romantic mood during the seduction phase of lovemaking. The couple has already walked down the perennial pathway and entered the perennial bed and most likely undressed when, like a miracle from heaven, a perennial shower begins to rain down from the cleverly rigged shower machine above the bed.

So, I'm going to repost it, leave it up for more fun.

If you kids are done with this game, lemme know and send in suggestions for new ones.

Again: the word is perennial shower. Dig it.

When the alarm clock won't do, how about an explosion?

2004-07-19T06:52:00.000-04:00

When the alarm clock won't do, how about an explosion?

Rubbernecking is replaced by pedestrians gathering on street corners in New York. They're cattle grazing on spectacle. I joined in this morning when upon reaching the street at Varick and King I saw two fire trucks, two patrol cars, an ambulance, and a manhole cover ajar and beneath a sedan with government plates. Then an explosion eminating from the manhole cover. Fifty air-filled paper bags being popped in unison. A brief flash of light (phosphorous overtook my olfactory. It's still all I smell), followed by whom I suppose is the owner of the G-car, a man in a suit and tie, commanding the fire fighters to clear the area.

Barking with arms outstretched and waving, they herded.

"Clear the area!"

"Clear the area!"

"Rope off the area!"

Everyone obeyed, but only moving to the west side of the street. Sure this was not a terrorist attack and giving way to my hunger, I left the scene. It was time for my bacon, egg and cheese.

Tech headache

2004-07-16T09:40:00.000-04:00

2004-07-15T11:55:00.000-04:00

Chinese food is always better when accompanied by death threats

Meeting Jess on the corner of Park Place and Franklin Ave (the frontera of Prospect Heights and Crown Heights), we ambled to the diagonal corner for some take-out comida Chino. I had salacious pensimientos of hot sauce dribbled over...enough of that! After placing our order—sesame chicken for me; sesame shrimp for her—and stepping over the threshold of the storefront, we were confronted by a drunk Black man, his arm in a sling.

Leave me alone, or I kill ya', he said as if it were a normal as any salutation.

Okey dokey, Jess quickly replied, as she kept walking toward home.

Hey, man, relax, I entreated.

The man stopped, turned to face us.

Leave me alone, I kill ya', white woman!

Relax. Relax, I insisted, approaching him and seeing two beat cops behind him. Here comes the punchline, I thought. Wait for it.

He then decided he was through assailing us with his street poetry, turned around smack dab in front of the beat cops. They were waiting for him, hands resting gently on their nightsticks.

2004-07-14T10:59:00.000-04:00

It's sad if it's really just about the numbers

As a student at a North Carolina liberal arts college, I saw first hand the booming number of Latinos in Cackalacky. I also witnessed the deep-rooted racism and objectification of these newcomers by Southerners. Now, CNN has decided to oogle this topic through the lens of higher education.

"We've got to serve that population if we're going to meet our enrollment goals," said associate vice chancellor Jon Young. "We're trying to look at ways we can be more approachable." Insert joke about Catholic Latinos and birth control here.

Check it out.

2004-07-14T10:26:00.000-04:00

Um...Yeah...Gulp

Two items:

The first is a piece posted on the Morning news, Weddingchanneled. It's a frightening account of one woman's fall into the dark side of wedding registries. Reading it, I thought, Please don't let this be Jess and I.

The second is a word. It's the usual drill. I post a word; you rustle up imaginative definitions. Today's magic word is perennial shower.

2004-07-09T15:08:00.000-04:00

Franklin Ave. Shuttle go BOOM!

Contrary to the deal we had struck (she does the laundry; I do the kitchen), I ended up doing laundry last night. A lot of it. Several trips worth. On our way back from the 'mat (I convinced Jess I needed her to stand guard over one batch while I hauled another to our apt) I noticed ten or so orange-vested MTA workers trekking it to the shuttle's Park Place Station (across the street from my building); a patrol car; an MTA van with lights ablazing orange and yellow on our dimly lighted street; more MTA workers loitering outside the station's entrance; and a heckuva lotta people on the platform.

I asked the kids hanging out on the stoop if they knew what was up. Bomb threat. BOMB threat. Brooklyn go boom thoughts ignited my synapses quickly followed by the smoky realization: Yeah, right.

Now, who'd want to destroy a four-station line in disrepair? Really, people, the Franklin Ave Shuttle train's not worth the effort. Besides, if someone had blown up Park Place station, the mayor and city would probably be happy to have finally rid themselves of a Brooklyn eyesore. Nevermind the fact that my building would've gone bye-bye.

There was no bomb.

More on the Frankline Ave Shuttle
Forgotten NY
NYC Subway

2004-07-07T09:22:00.000-04:00

The week of no fun is over

Last week sucked. It was the week of no fun that was prepping for the big move o' Jessie last Saturday. This meant I missed the going-away dinner of a friend, was kept from the Spelling Bee that wasn't and lost out on the grub at JL and MRK's Backyard BBQ madness. I was downright pissy. I was getting high on paint fumes when I could've been at Freddy's. I traded one hangover for another.

Miraculously enough, though, I didn't once complain during the move on Saturday. I kept declaring It must be love! It must be love while T and I hauled a queen-size fold-out sofa bed up four flights of stairs. A case of Brooklyn Beer and pizza followed. That's when I surveyed our kingdom and lost my appetite. Jessie had too much stuff for one girl. Shit, her shoe collection rivals Imelda's; her make-up and toiletries took up two hiking packs, not day packs, hiking packs. And I blew it. You gotta get rid of some of your stuff. Do you really need these stencils? How often do you wear those shoes? Do we really need a coffee table that's as big as our living room? Aarrrrrrrgggggggggggghh, collapse on Godforsaken couch.

Get out.

What?

I'll get more done with you out having drinks with friends. Get out.

She didn't have to say anymore. I made a few calls and booked it to Queens for some cards and beer at Rapture before being drive home where P and I sat on my roof till 2 am locating constellations with the help of his new cell phone app, Starfinder. Relief.

I ecstatic to begin my life with the woman I'll wake up next to for hereafter. (In related news: the wedding site and caterer are being cemented this week; other wedding plans are progressing nicely, too.) It's just after moving almost every year of my childhood, I've grown accustomed to chucking excess baggage for a more monastic life. The next time we move, I'll pay for movers. I'm never lifting that sofa bed again.

Now, who can get me out of the house this week?

2004-06-28T10:15:00.000-04:00

This just in: teenager working on transporter technology

In a bit news sure to be a relief to Jimmy Legs and others, a 15-year-old Long Island girl Alia Sabur received a Pentagon fellowship to trap atoms in hollow beams of light, the NY Post reports.

Her idea could also be used in 3-D imaging and spectroscopy—and potentially in some technology right out of "Star Trek"

"Theoretically it could be used to transport things and even people," she said

2004-06-24T10:06:00.000-04:00

The pregnant woman's HAMLET may be used to fight warts

I have four warts on my right hand that I've been treating with Dr. Scholl's. It's working pretty well but the constant burning sensation makes typing...well...interesting...pleasing.... The shit just burns. Then there's the constant queries. What's wrong with your hand? Why's your hand one big Band-Aid? And so on. My replies vary from the truth to I had a mean run-in with a subway pole and leprosy. The curious usually then understand I don't want to talk about because I'm so FREAKIN' EMBARRASSED. I don't even let Jessie's fingers rest between my thumb and index finger when we hold hands. But it's gotta get treated.

Scientists, oh, those witty buggers, have stumbled upon a possible long-shot treatment for warts in, get this, breast milk. The compound in the milk is called human alpha-lactalbumin made lethal to tumor cells (HAMLET).

Perhaps, Jess and I should reconsider the procreation timetable? Uh...no.

In other life-changing developments: The lady and I have registered for the engagement party (to be thrown by my sister Pam) and wedding, which I read we should've done ages ago. (How bourgie, consulting a website for wedding stuff!). We've registered at:

Amazon
Target
The Knot
and, here's the wet dream,
Williams-Sonoma

I've listed the registeries at the suggestion of the site helping us plan next May. I'm told spread the word. And most of you, mi amigos, are invited to both. So, screw it. There they are. Again, how bourgie.

2004-06-22T19:15:00.000-04:00

People after my own heart

Gothamist reports on Voice story of a commuters' tussle over a subway pole. A young woman fought a fat man—who allegedly started the fight—and lost, ending up in jail.

Black said the big guy pulled her off the train, banging her hard against a pillar on the platform. When she was able to yank her bag away, the man said he was going to call the police. "I started walking, and he kept following me. I walked out into the street; I just wanted to find someone to help get this guy away from me."

As anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows, I have had several similar—though not as extreme, as I would never result to violence—experiences on the trains. This story hits on my two subway pet peeves: space hoggers and the Henry VIII obese. But my heart—yes, folks, I do have a heart—goes out to Ms. Black. She was unfairly treated by some cock.

Thanks, Maya, for the email.

2004-06-21T12:06:00.000-04:00

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday

Last Saturday I hit two states and two boroughs in a whirlwind tour de force.

8:30 AM: Woke up and hopped on the A to the PA for the IKEA shuttle bus.

11:00 AM: At IKEA in Jersey. Overwhelmed by the gaggle of shoppers blood-thirsty for a deal. Ask myself: Why am I here?

1:45 PM: Items purchased. Mission accomplished: ANEBODA 5-drawer cabinet in tow.

3:00 PM: The 63-lb box containing the cabinet is hoisted on to my right shoulder. I am to carry it home to Brooklyn.

4:00 PM: Paint the office's southern and eastern walls in the love nest of Jose and Jessie. Snap about time. Get snapped at in return. Mutual apologies follow.

5:30 PM: Walk to Flatbush Duane Reade for meds and Key Food for Rheingold.

6:15 PM: arrive at B-day Backyard BBQ with Jessie and Josh. Josh and I eat two Turkey burgers and one frank with two beers. Chat with a guy working on the Enron legal case.

8:00 PM: Josh and I split for our apartments to change into fancy threads for a B-day party at Cielo. Can't pass up the 2-hour open bar at swanky club. Jessie heads into Manhattan to hang with my sister Camille.

9:30 PM: A complimentary bottle of Belvedere Vodka, Sobe mixers, a bucket of ice and citrus wedges are brought to table. Our table is the only one to receive this treatment. Puzzled but ecstatic, we polish off the bottle by 11:00.

12:30 AM: The Village Idiot. I declare it's the sole reason smoking should be allowed in bars. Pitcher consumed our party decides to check out a loft party in Lefferts Gardens. At this point I lose track of time.

3:00 AM: After dancing to Brazilian tunes, it's time to head home to the honey.

3:19 AM: Stumble into my room, waking Jessie. In my intoxicated state I recount the evening's details for an hour. Jessie must be up at 7 or so for work.

4-something: fall asleep knowing I will have to attend Mass in the morning with a fierce hangover.

All in all, a fucking great Saturday.

2004-06-18T13:54:00.000-04:00

No, really, I am laidback

Ebullient over the decision of the location for our wedding, I blabbed to some of the boys. This was a mistake, as others were within ear-shot. On two separate occassions I was confronted with, Oh...oh...can I come to your wedding? by two female friends whom I see rarely. Aghast—and close to losing my cool—at the display of cojones (Who the fuck invites oneself to a wedding, anyway?) I simply replied: Please do not put me in an awkward position. It's not fair. Of course, this silenced them. Oh... The truth is it's going to be a smallish wedding of family and close friends, most family. We have large families. However, there will be an afterparty at the hotel. And everyone's invited to that. That's what I ought to have said. Of course, a friend told me I should've just replied with a No, but you're much too diplomatic for that.

This whole coming up with a guest list thing is hard enough. I would really love to invite everyone I know and love, but with a limited budget it's fucking nerve-wracking. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings deliberately....You understand, right?

A similar experience occurred earlier in the week. A dear friend in Asheville, NC, asked if she could come to the Bachelor party. Fuck. Her reasoning: We've been friends for the past ten years. We met on the first day of college and have always been their for mutual support. I'm one of your girls. It's only fair. The hell it is! My response: If you can come with a cock and balls, anatomically correct, fully functional, attached to your person, and with the ability to bleed, then, certainly you're more than welcomed to come. Over the phone: Fuck. Why? Why? Why? Well, just know the other girls will be asking you if they can come, too Fuck is right. Again: Please do not put me in an awkward position. It's not fair.

On a totally different subject: Why is that when I pour my heart out, no one comments (ie, the PR Day Parade post), but when I post about the wedding, everyone comments? Just curious.

Happy Friday. I'm off to my weekly card game in Queens tonight.

2004-06-15T15:00:00.000-04:00

Yesterday's noticias

Two languages are better than one when it comes to keeping the brain young, Canadian researchers reported on Monday.... "Language is always good—more language is always better," she said.

[via Reuters]

2004-06-15T13:32:00.000-04:00

Location, location, location: hopefully I'll be able to convince a Catholic priest it's OK to marry us outside of a church

Last week something Jessie and I thought would never happened did. Jessie's dad offered to pay for the cost of the wedding's location and caterering. This floored the both of us. So, it's been decided the little lady and I will be married at Prospect Park's Boathouse next May. Built in 1905, the Beaux Arts structure offers a wonderful view from its terrace (where the ceremony will be held) and loggia (where the reception will be held). Here are some photos from one of the Boathouse caterers. I just hope they get rid of the kiddie exhibits inside.

Now, anyone know someone who can play Spanish classical guitar?

2004-06-15T08:41:00.000-04:00

On Sunday everyone was Puerto Rican—even you, Josh Bernstein

Sunday, as all you New Yorkers know, was the annual Puerto Rican Day parade. It's the day in June when all intelligent folk don't dare venture into Manhattan. On two occassion, however, I did go to the desfile. As Rosie Perez said on some local network newscast Sunday night, Boricua pride is instilled from birth. It was that sense of pride and my long detachment from my native culture that led me to attend the parade in 1999. I hated it. The sidewalk crowd was eight deep and it took 20 minutes to traverse one block. Hoochie mamas wearing floss-thick Puerto Rican flag halter tops with the requisite belly roll spilling over their Daisy Dukes and ghetto fabulous hermanos decked in Puerto Rican flag everything were ubiquitous. As were pot smoke, discarded 40s, and ay, mami, todo eso e' tuyos. It was madness, as I would soon learn all NYC parades are. My disgust of large to-dos didn't help. This wasn't my Puerto Rico. This was the barrio on Museum Mile, and I was from the suburbs. Who the fuck was Felix Trinidad?

Remember, you're not like the Puerto Ricans in New York, the Nuyoricans.Titi Lla-Lla told me over the phone from her home high in the mountains on the island. They are a different people. Not from the European, educated, landowning stock you come from. They are not real Puerto Ricans This was coming from woman who spent much of the '60s in Berkeley where she once stole an ounce of herb from atop a fridge. This was coming from the most liberal member of my family. Then again, only she would know this. She had just retired from the Board of Ed after twenty-five years of teaching in the city. I, in my youthfull idealism, of course, didn't believe her. After decades of living in places where the Ralats were usually the only Boricua family in the neighborhood, I was finally going to be in a place where there other Puerto Ricans. I would have the opportunity to reconnect with a heritage largely suppressed since the days when my father declared English would be the dominant language at home. Bless the old veijo and his immigrant dream.

But that throng, a million strong, was not me. The old identity issues came flooding back with the insistance of other Puerto Ricans that I could no way in hell be one of them. I didn't look like them; I didn't have kinky hair, almost black skin, and a nose that seemed to have been smooshed by a güiro. What I did have was an impressive knowledge of Puerto Rican literature and mythology and history, not to mention the fact that I was born there—something most here long for with envy. I was deflated and resentful of my great aunt. But I was Puerto Rican, damn it, and I was proud!

When I next attended, I was hoping for a better experience. That was the year of the wilding in Central Park. I learned of it on the evening news and only realized I was yelling and shaking my fists at the TV when my Jewish girlfriend told me to calm down. You see, when a white person does something wrong it only reflects on the individual; when a non-white (eg, Puerto Rican) does something wrong, it reflects on all his or her people. Take the barriers Fifth Avenue buidlings erected as a "protective measure" against those crazy Ricans this year. Deflated and disgusted, I felt some relief by comunity leaders' admonishments of the event. Sin verguenza, those boys. They were not proud. They broke my heart. I retreated to the lyrical poems of Julia Burgos and the freedom fighting of Albizu Campos.

This year I swore I would not attend. I will only attend when my children will be able understand the event as an educational one, one segment of their Boricuatude. I don't regret going to the parades. I'm glad I went. I learned that we as Puerto Ricans not only come in every possible shade of skin and hair color but from every possible experience and avenida. Anyone can be a Puerto Rican.

2004-06-10T09:12:00.000-04:00

I bet the major publishing houses are shaking in their boots; watch out DIY-ers

For Budding Authors, a Rapid-Fire Publisher

[via The Morning News]

2004-06-10T08:40:00.000-04:00

Aren't they just so cute in military formation, and all? No paucity here, damn it

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2004-06-03T15:17:00.000-04:00

Because my fucking head hurts and this makes me laugh (or, how many of you will really read this?)

How Much Shall We Bet?
by Italo Calvino
The logic of cybernetics, applied to the history of the universe, is in the process of demonstrating how the galaxies, the solar system, the Earth, cellular life could not help but be born. According to cybernetics, the universe is formed by a series of feedbacks, positive and negative, at first through the force of gravity that concentrates masses of hydrogen in the primitive cloud, then through nuclear force and centrifugal force which are balanced with the first. From the moment that the process is set in motion, it can only follow the logic of this chain.

Yes, but at the beginning nobody knew it,—Qfwfq explained,—I mean, you could foretell it perhaps, but instinctively, by ear, guessing. I don't want to boast, but from the start I was willing to bet that there was going to be a universe, and I hit the nail on the head; on the question of its nature, too, I won plenty of bets, with old Dean (k)yK.

When we started betting there wasn't anything yet that might lead you to foresee anything, except for a few particles spinning around, some electrons scattered here and there at random, and protons all more or less on their own. I started feeling a bit strange, as if there was going to be a change of weather (in fact, it had grown slightly cold), and so I said: "You want to bet we're heading for atoms today?'' And Dean (k)yK said: "Oh, cut it out. Atoms! Nothing of the sort, and I'll bet you anything you say.''

So I said: "Would you even bet ix?''

The Dean answered: "Ix raised to en!''

He had no sooner finished saying this than around each proton its electron started whirling and buzzing. An enormous hydrogen cloud was condensing in space. "You see? Full of atoms!''

"Oh, if you call that stuff atoms!'' (k)yK said; he had the bad habit of putting up an argument, instead of admitting he had lost a bet.

We were always betting, the Dean and I, because there was really nothing else to do, and also because the only proof I existed was that I bet with him, and the only proof he existed was that he bet with me. We bet on what events would or would not take place; the choice was virtually unlimited, because up till then absolutely nothing had happened. But since there wasn't even a way to imagine how an event might be, we designated it in a kind of code: Event A, Event B, Event C, and so on, just to distinguish one from the other. What I mean is: since there were no alphabets in existence then or any other series of accepted signs, first we bet on how a series of signs might be and then we matched these possible signs with various possible events, in order to identify with sufficient precision matters that we still didn't know a thing about.

We also didn't know what we were staking because there was nothing that could serve as a stake, and so we gambled on our word, keeping an account of the bets each had won, to be added up later. All these calculations were very difficult, since numbers didn't exist then, and we didn't even have the concept of number, to begin to count, because it wasn't possible to separate anything from anything else. This situation began to change when, in the protogalaxies, the protostars started condensing, and I quickly realized where it would all end, with that temperature rising all the time, and so I said:

"Now they're going to catch fire.''

"Nuts!'' the Dean said.

"Want to bet?'' I said.

"Anything you like,'' he said, and wham the darkness was shattered by all these incandescent balls that began to swell out.

"Oh, but that isn't what catching fire means...'' (k)yK began, quibbling about words in his usual way.

By that time I had developed a system of my own, to shut him up: "Oh, no? And what does it mean then, in your opinion?''

He kept quiet: lacking imagination as he did, when a word began to have one meaning, he couldn't conceive of its having any other. Dean (k)yK, if you had to spend much time with him, was a fairly boring sort, without any resources, he never had anything to tell. Not that I, on the other hand, could have told much, since events worth telling about had never happened, or at least so it appeared to us. The only thing was to frame hypotheses, or rather: hypothesize on the possibility of framing hypotheses. Now, when it came to framing hypotheses of hypotheses, I had much more imagination than the Dean, and this was both an advantage and a disadvantage, because it led me to make riskier bets, so that you might say our probabilities of winning were even.

As a rule, I bet on the possibility of a certain event's taking place, whereas the Dean almost always bet against it. He had a static sense of reality, old (k)yK, if I may express myself in these terms, since between static and dynamic at that time there wasn't the difference there is nowadays, or in any case you had to be very careful in grasping it, that difference.

For example, the stars began to swell, and I said: "How much?'' I tried to lead our predictions into the field of numbers, where he would have less to argue about.

At that time there were only two numbers: the number e and the number pi. The Dean did some figuring, by and large, and answered: "They'll grow to e raised to pi.'' Trying to act smart! Any fool could have told that much. But matters weren't so simple, as I had realized. "You want to bet they stop, at a certain point?''

"All right. When are they going to stop?''

And with my usual bravado, I came out with my pi. He swallowed it. The Dean was dumbfounded.

From that moment on we began to bet on the basis of e and pi.

"Pi!'' the Dean shouted, in the midst of the darkness and the scattered flashes. But instead that was the time it was e. We did it all for fun, obviously; because there was nothing in it for us, as far as earning went. When the elements began to be formed, we started evaluating our bets in atoms of the rarer elements, and this is where I made a mistake. I had seen that the rarest of all was technetium, so I started betting technetium and winning, and hoarding: I built up a capital of technetium. I hadn't foreseen it was an unstable element that dissolved in radiations: suddenly I had to start all over again, from zero.

Naturally, I made some wrong bets, too, but then I got ahead again and I could allow myself a few risky prognostications.

"Now a bismuth isotope is going to come out!'' I said hastily, watching the newborn elements crackle forth from the crucible of a "supernova'' star. "Let's bet!''

Nothing of the sort: it was a polonium atom, in mint condition. In these cases (k)yK would snigger and chuckle as if his victories were something to be proud of, whereas he simply benefitted from overbold moves on my part. Conversely, the more I went ahead, the better I understood the mechanism, and in the face of every new phenomenon, after a few rather groping bets, I could calculate my previsions rationally. The order that made one galaxy move at precisely so many million light-years from another, no more and no less, became clear to me before he caught on. After a while it was all so easy I didn't enjoy it any more.

And so, from the data I had at my disposal, I tried mentally to deduce other data, and from them still others, until I succeeded in suggesting eventualities that had no apparent connection with what we were arguing about. And I just let them fall, casually, into our conversation.

For example, we were making predictions about the curve of the galactic spirals, and all of a sudden I came out with: "Now listen a minute, (k)yK, what do you think? Will the Assyrians invade Mesopotamia?''

He laughed, confused. "Meso- what? When?''

I calculated quickly and blurted a date, not in years and centuries of course, because then the units of measuring time weren't conceivable in lengths of that sort, and to indicate a precise date we had to rely on formulas so complicated it would have taken a whole blackboard to write them down.

"How can you tell?''

"Come on, (k)yK, are they going to invade or not? I say they do; you say no. All right? Don't take so long about it.''

We were still in the boundless void, striped here and there by a streak or two of hydrogen around the vortexes of the first constellations. I admit it required very complicated deductions to foresee the Mesopotamian plains black with men and horses and arrows and trumpets, but, since I had nothing else to do, I could bring it off.

Instead, in such cases, the Dean always bet no, not because he believed the Assyrians wouldn't do it, but simply because he refused to think there would ever be Assyrians and Mesopotamia and the Earth and the human race.

These bets, obviously, were long-term affairs, more than the others; not like some cases, where the result was immediately know. "You see that Sun over there, the one being formed with an ellipsoid all around it? Quick before the planets are formed: how far will the orbits be from one another?''

The words were hardly out of my mouth when, in the space of eight or nine—what am I saying?—six or seven hundred million years, the planets started revolving each in its orbit, not a whit more narrow nor a whit wider.

I got much more satisfaction, however, from the bets we had to bear in mind for billions and billions of years, without forgetting what we had bet on, and remembering the shorter-term bets at the same time, and the number (the era of whole numbers had begun, and this complicated matters a bit) of bets each of us had won, the sum of the stakes (my advantage kept growing; the Dean was up to his ears in debt). And in addition to all this I had to dream up new bets, further and further ahead in the chain of my deductions.

"On February 8, 1926, at Santhia, in the Province of Vercelli—got that? At number 18 in Via Garibaldi—you follow me? Signorina Giuseppina Pensotti, aged twenty-two, leaves her home at quarter to six in the afternoon: does she turn right or left?''

"Mmmmm . . . '' (k)yK said.

"Come on, quickly. I say she turns right . . . '' And through the dust nebulae, furrowed by the orbits of the constellations, I could already see the wispy evening mist rise in the streets of Santhia, the faint light of a street lamp barely outlining the sidewalk in the snow, illuminating for a moment the slim shadow of Giuseppina Pensotti as she turned the corner past the Customs House and disappeared.

On the subject of what was to happen among the celestial bodies, I could stop making new bets and wait calmly to pocket my winnings from (k)yK as my predictions gradually came true. But my passion for gambling led me, from every possible event, to foresee the interminable series of events that followed, even down to the most marginal and aleatory ones. I began to combine predictions of the most immediately and easily calculated events with others that required extremely complicated operations. "Hurry, look at the way the planets are condensing: now tell me, which is the one where an atmosphere is going to be formed? Mercury? Venus? Earth? Mars? Come on: make up your mind! And while you're about it, calculate for me the index of demographic increase on the Indian subcontinent during the British raj. What are you puzzling over? Make it snappy!''

I had started along a narrow channel beyond which events were piling up with multiplied density; I had only to seize them by the handful and throw them in the face of my competitor, who had never guessed at their existence. Once I happened to drop, almost absently, the question: "Arsenal-Real Madrid, semifinals. Arsenal playing at home. Who wins?,'' and in a moment I realized that with what seemed a casual jumble of words I had hit on an infinite reserve of new combinations among the signs which compact, opaque, uniform reality would use to disguise its monotony, and I realized that perhaps the race toward the future, the race I had been the first to foresee and desire, tended only—through time and space—toward a crumbling into alternatives like this, until it would dissolve in a geometry of invisible triangles and ricochets like the course of a football among the white lines of a field as I tried to imagine them, drawn at the bottom of the luminous vortex of the planetary system, deciphering the numbers marked on the chests and backs of the players at night, unrecognizable in the distance.

By now I had plunged into this new area of possibility, gambling everything I had won before. Who could stop me? The Dean's customary bewildered incredulity only spurred me to greater risks. When I saw I was caught in a trap it was too late. I still had the satisfaction—a meager satisfaction, this time—of being the first to be aware of it: (k)yK seemed not to catch on to the fact that luck had now come over to his side, but I counted his bursts of laughter, once rare and now becoming more and more frequent...

"Qfwfq, have you noticed that Pharaoh Amenhotep IV had no male issue? I've won!''

"Qfwfq, look at Pompey! He lost out to Caesar after all! I told you so!''

And yet I had worked out my calculations to their conclusion, I hadn't overlooked a single component. Even if I were to go back to the beginning, I would bet the same way as before.

"Qfwfq, under the Emperor Justinian, it was the silkworm that was imported from China to Constantinople. Not gunpowder... Or am I getting things mixed up?''

"No, no, you win, you win . . . ''

To be sure, I had let myself go, making predictions about fleeting, impalpable events, countless predictions, and now I couldn't draw back, I couldn't correct myself. Besides correct myself how? On the basis of what?

"You see, Balzac doesn't make Lucien de Rubempre commit suicide at the end of Les Illusions perdues," the Dean said, in a triumphant, squeaky little voice he had been developing of late. ``He has him saved by Carlos Herrera, alias Vautrin. You know? The character who was also in Pere Goirot... Now then, Qfwfq, how far have we got?''

My advantage was dropping. I had saved my winnings, converted into hard Valletta, in a Swiss bank, but I had constantly to withdraw big sums to meet my losses. Not that I lost every time. I still won a bet now and then, even a big one, but the roles had been reversed; when I won I could no longer be sure it wasn't an accident or that, the next time, my calculations wouldn't again be proved to be wrong.

At the point we had reached, we needed reference libraries, subscriptions to specialized magazines, as well as a complex of electronic computers for our calculations: everything, as you know, was furnished us by a Research Foundation, to which, when we settled on this planet, we appealed for funds to finance our research. Naturally, our bets figure as an innocent game between the two of us and nobody suspects the huge sums involved in them. Officially we live on our modest salaries as researchers for the Electronic Predictions Center, with the added sum, for (k)yK, that goes with the position of Dean, which he has intrigued to obtain from the Department, though we kept on pretending he wasn't lifting a finger. (His predilection for stasis has got steadily worse; he turned up here in the guise of a paralytic, in a wheelchair.) This title of Dean, I might add, has nothing to do with seniority, otherwise I'd be just as much entitled to it as he is, though of course it doesn't mean anything to me.

So this is how we reached our present situation. Dean (k)yK, from the porch of his building, seated in the wheelchair, his legs covered with a rug of newspapers from all over the world, which arrive with the morning post, shouts so loud you can hear him all the way across the campus: "Qfwfq, the atomic treaty between Turkey and Japan wasn't signed today; they haven't even begun talks. You see? Qfwfq, that man in Termini Imerese who killed his wife was given three years, just as I said. Not life!''

And he waves the pages of the papers, black and white the way space was when the galaxies were being formed, and crammed—as space was then—with isolated corpuscles, surrounded by emptiness, containing no destination of meaning. And I think how beautiful it was then, through that void, to draw lines and parabolas, pick out the precise point, the intersection between space and time where the event would spring forth, undeniable in the prominence of its glow; whereas now events come flowing down without interruption, like cement being poured, one column next to the other, one within the other, separated by black and incongruous headlines, legible in many ways but intrinsically illegible, a doughy mass of events without form or direction, which surrounds, submerges, crushes all reasoning.

"You know something Qfwfq? The closing quotations on Wall Street are down 2 per cent, not 6! And that building constructed illegally on the Via Cassia is twelve stories high, not nine! Nearco IV wins at Longchamps by two lengths. What's our score now, Qfwfq?''

from Cosmicomics [ via Emory's Italo Calvino page]

2004-06-01T08:25:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I saw Coffee and Cigarettes, My sister flew into town, I hung out in El Barrio, drank lots of wine and then I read this:

Heroes, Poets and Even a Dog, but No Puerto Ricans.

Hope everyone had a happy Memorial Day.

2004-05-28T09:46:00.000-04:00

Another subway story before the holiday

Tonight begins the holiday hoe-down. T has finally completed his undergrad work. From Baltimore, Mags arrives tonight with new beau (He's nothing like my usual boy, which is to say he's mentally sound.) And my little sister Camille blows into town for a month tenure on Monday. There are many reasons to celebrate.

Tonight some kids and I will check out the Wau Wau Sisters performance at the Lower East Side Festival for the Arts. But not before some heavy drinkin'. This is the first Friday in...geez, I don't know...that I won't be in Astoria playing cards and watching Richard Dean Anderson in military gear.

So, right, the story:

At eight in the morning the B train is usually slammed to the sides with straphangers, Russians, Eastern Europeans, and Central Asains from Brighton Beach and the adjacent environs, Blacks and Chinese from Flatbush, Latinos from everywhere, by the time it pulls into Prospect Park Station. This morning it wasn't, still most passengers were standing. Why, when from the platform the seats were seemingly empty? I followed the coffee-deprived stares of the commuters to a tall man asleep on the seats. Now, I've noticed folks are hesitant to confront bums or the like on trains due to unpredictability. People just want to be alone in a car full of a hundred-plus citizens. But this morning I wasn't in the mood for passivity. A young woman was seated a few inches from the sleeping man's head while her husband was standing in front of her. Both looked helpless.

Yo, buddy, how's about letting some of us sit down? I said firmly as I prodded his side. No response. Hey, get up!

Sleepy drunk, he finally responded and complied. People clapped and expressed their thanks. The husband and I sat down. The man fell back to sleep sitting up occasionally slipping to the right, his head crashing into my boney shoulder. C'mon, man, scoot the fuck over, will ya'? He mumbled as I pushed him over. The car was brightened by smiles.

Have a good holiday weekend, my friends.

2004-05-27T09:45:00.000-04:00

Why pay for something when it's free on the internet?

In the past three months I have received three invoices from Playboy Enterprises. (Yes, that Playboy, which as become a Maxim clone.) The thing is I didn't recieve these bills at home; they were delivered to my office. The third one came with the June issue. For the record, I have never even thought about getting a subscription to underwrite Hef's Viagra Rx. Besides, Charisma Carpenter wasn't showing everything while the other girls were displaying "electric fur." I was gypped.

I had to put an end to this pathetic practical joke. Opening the invoice envelope produced no phone number. I had to go to their website. Only after viewing the site map did I find the customer service contact. (They obvious don't want you to cancel scripts.) I had to email my insistance Playboy cancel the subscription I didn't apply for. Here's the reply I received this morning.

From: XXXX
Subject: Re: General question
Date: May 27, 2004 9:33:55 AM EDT
To: XXX
Reply-To: XXX

As requested, your credit order has been canceled. Disregard any further
invoices you may receive.

Please accept any issues you have received with our compliments.

Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience this has caused.

If you feel that further assistance by email is required, please use the
reply feature to include all previous correspondence including your
complete name and address.

Playboy Enterprises International, Inc

2004-05-27T08:51:00.000-04:00

Shoulder to shoulder

Men in New York City must have elephantitis of the balls, the way they spread their legs while seated on the subway. Most straphangers are ok with this. To hell with that. Your sack is not as sensitive as you might have others believe. So, when I entered the subway car and saw a young man taking up half a seat extra, I knew I had a seat. (Unlike most people who see slivers of available seats between obsese commuters and those who need breathing room for their huge huevos, I will plop down my ample ass.) I saw a seat. I was going to sit down.

Excuse me, I said.

He didn't budge.

I sat down anyway. Fuck him for being a selfish bastard.

Over the bouncy rock coming from my headphones, I heard him grumble. I smiled. This was going to be fun. And then he started to push me with his shoulder. I wasn't going to give. Buddy, if you want a my-balls-are-bigger match, you just lost, I thought. Matching his force, I resisted. He wouldn't relent. Push. Pause. Push. Push. Pause. Resistance is great. I just steeled myself long enough to tire him out. He gave up his extra half seat. I got my seat.

2004-05-26T11:09:00.000-04:00

Old reliable

As you can see, my old template and comments service are back up. This set-up was rarely problematic and simple to manage, unlike Blooger's new templates and wacked-out code. My host's new options were attractive because they were offering image uploading for free. But I'll limit that to another blog project currently in the works.

The Blogger built-in comments service was horrible in that you had to register with the site in order to not post as Anon. This is contradictory to their assurances a setting allowing anyone to post was available. I had that setting activated. They lied. Now I've lost all my previous comments.

This means one thing. My loyal visitors must, of course, inundate me with comments, especially you, Mrs. Ringland...err...I mean, Robin. Right?

Snickering and befuddled from SoHo, ciao.

Blast! This means tonight I will not garden

2004-05-25T16:57:00.000-04:00

Blast! This means tonight I will not garden
First I'd like to thank Bagger for her help on getting my links up. Also, please bear with me as LfL goes through its usual technical difficulties.

Tonight I shall put off gardening for tinkering with code. I'm gonna need more cigarettes.

It wasn't just my birthday

2004-05-24T13:35:00.000-04:00

It wasn't just my birthday

May 4, 2004, was also the one-year anniversary of this here blog-o. LfL is still in its infancy, however. I'm in the midst of giving it a face lift with one of the new blogger templates. Of course I'm having problems with the code (read: my links aren't up).

I owe the creation of this blog to Jimmy Legs. It was he who cornered me at a party and, as soused as I, blurted something like, C'mon, I wanna her more subway stories, man. He clued me into Blogger and the rest is evident.

In other related news: I was interviewed for a story on Queens bloggers. Yes, I know, I no longer live in The Borough, but was recommend to the author by NYC Bloggers. Weird. The story was published last Thursday. Here's the bit about me. Chandler, the writer, confused my last name (it's Ralat Maldonado), the site of the WYSIWYG Talent Show, and dropped my plug of Rated Rookie.

Jose Ralat Maldonado is the editor, by day, of a neuropsychiatric journal owned by a small publishing house. By night, he writes short stories and poetry, some of which he has published, and produces Left-Field Lengua, a blog he began about a year ago at the urging of a friend.

Left-Field Lengua ? a name that refers to Maldonado’s love of baseball and language ?features word games, observations about literature and "smatterings about my own life."

Parts of that life must have been tough for Maldonado, 28, who was born in Puerto Rico, came to the mainland at 3 and lived "all over" the country as a child. He also has a pronounced stutter, the result, he said, of epilepsy.

Regarding that condition, Maldonado recalled a recent reading he gave at an event for bloggers at P.S. 1, a cultural institution in Long Island City. "I was so frustrated because of my stuttering that I left the stage shouting, ‘That’s why I blog,’ " he said.

I appreciate the publicity, but can't help feeling the interview would have gone better over email.

The way to my heart is through my stomach

2004-05-24T08:00:00.000-04:00

The way to my heart is through my stomach

I've been a bad, bad boy. I've been negligent. A poor provider. A deadbeat blogger. And now I'll spend every jiffy (that's the new word) of free time updating LfL and you, lenguitas, on the past three weeks. First, my birthday celebration of May 8, which involved a haircut provided by my dear Señorita Salcedo. Sitting in the chair in my bedroom while Jess snipped away at my long locks sent me back to the early 80s. When a haircut was a day trip. I fidgeted, whined, and eventually gave blood. This time I didn't give blood but scored on the former two. V and Jessie said I was pale-faced and wide-eyed in terror. They were laughing the entire time. No wonder I was scared.

Me: I think you should get my comb, Jess. It's in the bathroom. On the toilet tank. I don't know how good you are at this. My comb, Jess. Really. You should use it. Goddamn it. Vanessa, get my comb, please.
Jessie (with a whack across my head): Relax, you big baby. And, for fuck's sake, keep you head still. Look up.

Jessie did a splendid job, so I, of course, apologized. It was time to prep for the birthday dinner at Rosa Mexicano. There was guac. There was smokey, palette-pinching tomatillo salsa. And there was MOLE! Mole poblano, to be exact. Ecstacy, dear Lord, sweet, spicy ecstacy. Reddish-brown like wet clay, I'm sure I would wilt without this special treat. If there's mole on the menu, I'll even eschew the lamb. Fuck the young, tender meat of baa-ing cuteness. Give me the rich and sultry, mouth-embracing kama sutra of the earth. That's when I should've saw it coming. I was blinded by South-of-the-border culinary cunnilingus.

I would've been pissed. I had every right to be pissed. But I was struck by the irony of it all. Mexican food for dinner and now El Primer Fiesta del Joseiesta hosted by Josh and Andrew. No way I could be upset. I was surrounded by love. My mug, photoshopped with a tacky Mexican sombrero and cut out from the sheets by Jill and her roommate Sara, was everywhere. Cien upon cien. Even on the toilet seat. When you sat down on the toilet there I was, a word bubble floating up from my wagging tongue: Usted huele como mierda. That one was my favorite. But let's not forget the tequila table. Yes, a whole freaking table dedicated to the cause of much of Rated Rookie's shenanigans. Even Jimmy Legs succumbed to agave's siren's call. And everyone, everyone was sporting greasepaint 'staches while dancing to the salsas and rancheros blasting from the boombox. I got to salsa with Jess. I was happy and drunk. Thankfully, my walk home was a half block. My boys had gone through a lot trouble to show their love for their friend and neighbor. Fiesta...

Yeah, so I suck

2004-05-21T18:02:00.000-04:00

Yeah, so I suck

Please don't hit me. I haven't had time today to post. I have been, however, updating the look of the site. Of couse, I'm having trouble posting my links. Bear with me, little lenguas. Tomorrow morning should—Christ, I hope so—be able to post an extensive entry full of the lickity you love.

I wish I could call it a sabbatical

2004-05-19T17:10:00.000-04:00

I wish I could call it a sabbatical

That odious and noisome concept "work"—and other meirda——have kept me from doing anything beyond reading blogs. On Friday, though, be prepared for a gigante post recapping my two-week absence. Highlights include a table full of tequila bottles around which circled people with greasepaint mustaches, bartering with my Hassidic landlord, and a mean trick involving Playboy. Yes, that Playboy.

2004-05-04T12:32:00.000-04:00

Who wants to lug around a copy of War and Peace anyway?

Where did I find this link? I can't remember. Maybe it's because I'm a snot factory. Anyway, check out Readprint. It's an online library of public domain books. But free. Perhaps I'll try reading Ulysses. Yeah, right. It's the snot talking, err, I mean, typing. We internet junkies spend enough time in front of computers.

2004-05-03T15:21:00.000-04:00

Ugh

Sick. Suited. Sore throated. Tied. Congested.

Medical conference. All day. Board meetings. No sleep. Need sleep. Birthday party on Saturday night. E-mail this man for info.

2004-04-30T08:00:00.000-04:00

I still think farting is funny

Walter the Farting Dog
Captain Underpants
Zombie Butts from Uranus

"You gotta give kids something they want to read," says Murray, who firmly believes that his smelly but well-meaning protagonist has become an ambassador for literacy.
[via CNN]