tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334945372024-03-05T21:04:17.084-08:00Joy BuzzerJoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-19089482047802263242011-10-13T08:52:00.000-07:002011-10-16T13:46:43.360-07:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">Long Time, No Blog</span> <br /><br />At least on this page. <br /><br />But on <a href="http://itemsforextremists.blogspot.com/">this one</a> -- different story.<br /> <br />I'll be posting new items two-three times a week, so check back often. "Liking" the site on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Items-for-Extremists/113891792052847">its FaceBook page</a> wouldn't come amiss either.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-12320174759518043872010-11-07T16:34:00.000-08:002010-11-07T21:19:36.599-08:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT?</span><br /><br />So the elections were a disaster and it’s getting chilly and we’ve lost an hour of daylight. I still feel pretty good. I’m pleased. I jazzed. I’m chuffed. I don’t like to use the h-word recklessly, but I would admit to feeling jolly these days, and I have a reason:<br /><br />Alfie is now the fourth most popular name in the UK–well, England and Wales. <br /><br />If the news hasn‘t reached you yet, it’s because the story got lost in the reportage: Some media, such as <a href="http://www.jpost.com/International/Article.aspx?id=193096">The Jerusalem Post</a>, reported that Jack, long the most popular English name, was surpassed this year by Mohammed. It’s an interestng story in its chronicle-of-changing-times, sun-setting-on-the-twilight-of-the-embers- of-the-Empire way, but it only works if you allow all variants of Mohammed, such Muhammed and Muhamed, to count as the same name, which is a break Alaska was not willing to cut Lisa Murkowski. If you disallow spelling variations, the most popular English and Welsh male baby name this year is Oliver, which is what <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2010/oct/27/oliver-olivia-popular-baby-names">The Guardian</a> reported. It's interesting, I guess, in a more-things-change-the-more-they-stay-the-same way. <br /><br />The nut of the story, imho, is the Alfie surge.<br /><br />In terms of popularity, my name got off to a great start in the seventh century, or maybe it was the eighth, with Alfred the Great. The Age of Alfred peaked in the late nineteenth century, when Oscar Wilde might have read aloud to Lord Alfred Douglas from the works of Alfred Lord Tennyson before his troubles with a pimp named Alfred Taylor and a blackmailer named Alfred Wood, among others, overwhelmed him, which happened not long before the death of Alfred Nobel. <br /><br />Our cohort dwindled as the twentieth century droned on, but when I was born, famous Alfreds still walked the earth: Alfred Lunt, Alfred North Whitehead, Alfred Noyes, Alf Landon. Go to a show and you might see Alfie Doolittle or Alfred Drake. Go to a movie and it might be directed by Alfred Hitchcock or feature an indelible comic turn by Alfie Bass. Even so, the name was fading from memory, including my mother’s, who frequently forgot which name she’d selected from the short list, so called me by all of them: Arthur, Alfred, Alan and sometimes Judy. It was an easy mistake in those days of Arthur Godfrey, Arthur Murray, Alan Freed, Alan Shepherd and my sister, Judy.<br /><br />I was lucky to avoid any of the weird variants temporarily in the air at the time. I could’ve been Alvin or Albin; once I met an Alynn, the poor bastard. I was at an audition recently and was asked if I like to be called “Fred.” Fred? Makes no more sense to my ears than my father’s occasional nickname for me, Pete. It was also his occasional nickname for himself. It was something I figured I’d understand when as an adult. Negative. <br /><br />But now we’re back Of course, the signs were there all along: Bruce Wayne’s faithful butler, Alfred; Alfred Molina. And of course, the tectonic-plate-shifting success of Jude Law’s 2004 remake of <span style="font-style:italic;">Alfie</span>. It was the original <span style="font-style:italic;">Alfie</span> with Michael Caine that kept hope alive for Alfreds back in the sixties and, coincidentally, gave the diminutive form of Alfred the raffish cachet it has enjoyed ever since. <br /><br />Unsurprisingly, I prefer the non-diminutive, full-Monty "Alfred" to "Alfie;" it is, after all, my name. Not that I don’t think Alfie is great. My sister always calls me Alfie and, when all is going well, my wife does too. But Alfred is my <span style="font-style:italic;">nom du</span> driver’s license, credit card, etc. – occasions when you want a moniker that isn’t a nickname. Do not forget that “Alfred” means “council from the elves,” so "Alfie" suggests a counselor from the elves who is unusually, possibly bizarrely, elfin, a Special Needs elf. But maybe I’m just old-fashioned.<br /><br />Clearly, many proud English and Welsh parents don’t share my concerns, so I offer a virtual toast of fellowship with my fellow Alfreds and Alfs and Alfies and Alfredos for that matter. We are the Alfreds (and etc.) we’ve been waiting for.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-22940663412159472852010-10-18T10:22:00.000-07:002010-10-18T10:33:57.043-07:00<span style="font-weight:bold;"><em>BEI MIR BIST DU</em> STRANGE</span><br /><br />Carl Paladino has been relatively quiet lately. This interlude began after the Orthodox rabbi who claims partial authorship for the candidate's sharp indictment of homosexuality, homosexuals, the Gay Pride Parade and anyone tolerant of the aforementioned, especially if named Cuomo, withdrew his support for Paladino. The reason: Paladino's sort-of-but-not-quite apology for his remarks. Rabbi Yehua Levin noted with Runyonesque flair that the gubernatorial aspirant had <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/14/nyregion/14paladino.html?_r=1" target="_hplink">"folded like a cheap camera" </a>when confronted with the uproar his statements provoked. <br /><br />No sooner was the press conference over than controversy about it began. The NYT Cityroom blog said he <a href="http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/10/14/seeing-what-self-anointed-sainthood-looks-like/?scp=2&sq=yehuda%20levin&st=cse" target="_hplink">folded like a cheap lawn chair</a>, not a cheap camera, which isn't nearly as good, imho. Either way, it was easy for Rabbi Levin to say. He's not running for governor and, although Jews are known for their disputative zest, the Reb doesn't look like he spends much time with people who disagree with him. Everyone in the room in which Big Carl made his speech, except for Big Carl himself, was dressed just like Levin, in duds required by the style dictates of a Jewish sect that is, quite literally, holier than thou, than me, than Carl, than anyone other than they, and they've got chapter and verse to prove it. <a href="http://www.rabbilevin.com/2010/10/keith-olbermann-honors-rabbi-levin-and.html" target="_hplink">Carl lingered sneeringly over the words "gay pride" </a>and the boys-only crowd clapped and nodded as if of one mind, Levin's. <br /><br />Rabbi Levin is entitled to his opinions, which include the view that <a href="http://www.rabbilevin.com/2007/01/gay-marriage-in-israel-worse-than.html" target="_hplink">permitting gay marriage in Israel would be worse than the Holocaust</a>, and his followers are entitled to his opinion too. But if the Reb didn't realize that saying nasty things about gay people in New York City-especially in the wake of a gay student's jump off the GW and an attack on some young gay men that sure sounds like a hate crime-is not good strategy for a candidate already known for a distinct lack of polish, then Levin committed what even less devout Jews call a <a href="http://www.pass.to/glossary/gloz1.htm#letg " target="_hplink">goyische kop</a>. And that, as Martha Stewart, shiksa of renown, might say, is <em>not </em>a good thing. <br /><br />The Rabbi was not content simply to withdraw support for his erstwhile amigo. He had more to say and he said in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, apparently in hopes that Archbishop Timothy M. Dolan would join him in a sort of ecumenical homo smackdown. The Archbishop didn't show, no <em>goyishche kop</em> he, and here's where the story gets odd. The Rabbi averred that he was dining when he learned of Paladino's mea culpa (not the Rabbi's words, of course, but after all, he was in front of St. Pat's):<br /><br />"I was in the middle of eating a kosher pastrami sandwich," Rabbi Levin said. "While I was eating it, they come running and they say, 'Paladino became gay!' I said, 'What?' And then they showed me the statement. I almost choked on the kosher salami." <br /><br />Say what? He's eating pastrami, then he's choking on salami? What was he eating, a double-decker? Then why not say so? What about the pickle, half-sour or full? Maybe his sandwich transubstantiated: water into wine, wine into blood, pastrami into salami. <br /><br />If that's the case, I think the Rabbi should thank G- - the mustard didn't turn into mayonnaise. Then he'd really be in trouble.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-22802438170471704412010-09-29T12:21:00.000-07:002010-09-29T12:23:28.549-07:00THE WEASEL BLINKS<br /><br />Readers of my <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alfred-gingold/chase-home-finance-rabid_b_664109.html" target="_hplink">recent posts</a> know that my wife and I are locked in combat with our mortgage bank, which persists in creating false penalties to add to our mortgage bill. Last week, the day after the receipt from our certified letter to Jamie Dimon returned to us, we received a voice mail from Heather Yomboro of the Chase Home Finance Executive Office. Actually, she lavished two calls on us, which we couldn't return until the next day, by which time a Fedex from Heather had appeared under our door to the effect that if she did not hear back from us, Chase would assume the matter closed. After three months of studiously ignoring us, the Weasel demands action.<br /> <br />In 2008, the last time we wrote to Mr. Dimon, the fixer assigned to our case came from the Chase Executive Resolution Committee, which still sounds to me like a branch of the East German Secret Police, and indeed, our fixer would've been right at home in the Stasi, her humorless manner balanced between cool politesse and infuriating snottiness. Fortunately, I noticed that she bristled at being called Ma'am, so I called her Ma'am every chance I got.<br /><br />Chase's Executive Office must be a pleasanter place that its Executive Resolution Committee; at least Heather Yomboro is a good deal pleasanter than Ms. Stasi was. She bore the good news that our September mortgage payment was finally accepted and our fraudulent late penalties removed. To our astonishment, she apologized on behalf of the bank for sticking us with the neighbor's water bill and acknowledged that the Tax Department "jumped the gun" on our July tax payment, paying it before it was due so we could be escrowed for being late. I pointed out that this is not the first time Chase has pulled this stunt, not even the second. She apologized for that too. Apologized! Be still my heart.<br /><br />But even if Heather Yomboro is pleasant and courteous, she is still a Chase employee, so I was wary. And it turned out that the real reason for her call was that the bank is out of pocket for those improper tax payments. The NYC Tax Office, bless its stony heart, won't return their dough, simply crediting the funds toward our tax bill. So, Heather said, we must return those funds to Chase. Alternatively, she suggested, we could call the NYC Tax Office and persuade them to return Chase's money, then pay in our taxes ourselves. <br /><br />Not a chance. Can you imagine the length of the phone tree I'd have to wait through in order to plead the bank's case? Well, Heather opined, "the real problem here is that the city won't return our money to us." I reminded her that the real problem here is her employer's relentless greed and procedural sloppiness. Heather reminded me that, heck, a bank is really nothing more than a group of individuals who occasionally make, you know, mistakes. If you say so, Heather, although I'm inclined to see your bank, at least, as a sinister cadre of weasels devoted to nicking every penny it can get by tooth, claw or sleaze.<br /><br />I told Heather that before we would even consider paying Chase the money it can't get back from the city, we require a written statement of what we had discussed, included a listing of the various ways the bank attempted to defraud us: the water bill, the premature tax payment, the cooked up penalties. She agreed readily.<br /><br />That was six days ago and no such letter has arrived. However, Chase did send us a check for eighteen bucks, compensation for the certified letters we sent to Jamie et al. I'd mentioned the cost of those letters to Heather and that our other attempt to get Chase's attention had failed. They sent us the check without even a receipt from us (good thing too because I still can't find it). It was a nice gesture, much more convincing than the Weasel's customary sign-off, which graces this letter too: "Chase's goal is to provide the highest level of quality service." Nice, but I doubt the sincerity.<br /><br />As a public service, we offer some advice for all who have issues with Chase Home Weasel: Don't bother with the indifferent lugnuts of Customer Care or the unscrupulous bean-counters of the Tax Department. Write directly to Jamie Dimon himself, certified mail. In our experience, it's the only way there is to get the bank's attention, and he's probably got time on his hands now that he's sold his house. Here's his contact info: <br /><br />Jamie Dimon<br />JP Morgan Chase & Co. <br />270 Park Avenue <br />New York, NY 10017 <br />jamie.dimon@jpmchase.com<br />Phone: 212-270-1111<br />Fax : 212-270-1121<br /><br />Meanwhile, we await Chase's next missive while, of course, paying our mortgage on time.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-23724341441646110462010-09-17T13:13:00.000-07:002010-09-18T14:00:27.568-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHASE HOME WEASEL UPDATE: WE'RE SUING THE FURRY LITTLE BASTARDS</span><br /></div><br />Readers of my<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alfred-gingold/chase-home-weasel-update_b_707666.html"> most recent post</a> on Huffington know that the intransigent turpitude of Chase Home Finance, the bank which holds our mortgage, has driven me to consider legal options, but only in a blue-skying, dreamy sort of way. In practice, my main outlet for expressing my vengeful loathing for that gang thieving suits is referring to them as Chase Home Weasel whenever possible, a tactic about which my wife is understanding but tired. <br /><br />Now it's coming up on four weeks since creamy-voiced JoAnne of either the Tax Department or Chase Customer Care--it wasn't clear which but she was much smoother than the usual Customer Care thug--led us to believe that our situation was about to be fixed.<br /><br />Unfortunately, nothing has been fixed. Every day since our mortgage payment was acknowledged by email, we've received an email saying our payment has not been received.<br /><br />So yesterday we sent certified letters, return receipt requested, the whole nine yards, to Chase Home Weasel Customer Care, the Tax department and Jamie Dimon, CEO of JP Morgan Chase and by extension, King of the Weasels. Here's what it said:<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> We have made repeated attempts to get Chase to correct the errors it has made and continues to make with respect to our taxes and water bills. Chase has thus far failed to respond. Our efforts have been time-consuming and expensive. We make this final effort in the hopes of resolving this matter. Once again, we point out the following errors:<br /></div><br /><ol style="text-align: justify;"><li>The property taxes you seek to escrow us for are not delinquent; they have been paid in full and in timely fashion.</li><li>The water bill you seek to escrow us for is not ours. It is the water bill of our neighbor.</li><li>Contrary to your assertion that our water bill was delinquent, it was and is not delinquent either.</li><li>Contrary to your letter of June 28th, no correspondence has been sent to us by Chase Home Finance regarding “delinquent” payments for our property since December, 2009, the last time that Chase attempted to bill us for our neighbor’s water bill. (NB: All relevant documentation follows this note.) </li></ol><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /> These mistakes should not have been made by you in the first place. Chase’s failure to correct them promptly, Chase’s failure to respond to our repeated attempts to address this situation and Chase’s frequent reiterations of these same mistakes (Chase has attempted to collect our neighbor’s water bill from us every year since 2006), evidences something beyond negligence. Such behavior evidences bad faith. Please rectify this matter no later than c.o.b. October 15, 2010 or we will be forced to take the following actions:<br /><br /></div><ol style="text-align: justify;"><li>Bring an action in Small Claims Court to seek compensation for the damages you have caused us in both time and expense. We will subpoena the appropriate Chase employees and documents.</li><li>Report this matter for investigation to the New York State Department of Banking, the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency, the Better Business Bureau and the Attorney General. </li><li>Continue to report this situation on the Huffington Post, as Alfred Gingold has been doing since July 29th, also on FaceBook and elsewhere.</li></ol><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /> We continue to make our proper mortgage payments (principle and interest only) in timely fashion. We hope that you will now act in good faith to resolve this matter quickly without causing us any further distress. In order to contact us before October 15th, our telephone number is blah blah blah, sincerely, etc.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Wish us luck...<br /></div></div>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-75648173378976394942010-09-01T21:34:00.000-07:002010-09-01T22:03:38.451-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">TODAY'S QUOTATION</span><br /><br />“Now the Irish, being a brave people and semi-amphibious...” – Clara Morris, <span style="font-style: italic;">Life on the Stage</span>.<br /><br /> My friend Sam gave me a copy of Ms. Morris’ autobiography, coyright 1901. Googled her right away of course and learned she was an American leading lady of the 1860s and 70s and a precursor to the naturalism of Duse and the Method. <a href="http://www.wayneturney.20m.com/claramorris.htm">This article</a> has more information than the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clara_Morris">Wiki entry</a> and is just plain fascinating, imho.<br /><br /> I had two auditions this evening, both for fey, campy, fruity, minty -- what can I say? -- gay roles. The characters' names were the tip-offs: Cedric and Clifton. What makes these names gay?Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-64112652103801108022010-07-29T14:20:00.000-07:002010-08-01T18:13:16.455-07:00<span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHASE HOME FINANCE: RABID WEASEL</span><br /><br />Our mortgage bank says we have to pay our next door neighbor's water bill.<br /><br /> Last month, we got a letter from Chase Home Finance stating that we were delinquent in our payments. So Chase paid our neighbor's water bill and established an escrow account into which it plans to collect and store such money as it says we owe--at that moment, a cool $82.91, but increasing as Chase adds its "expenditures" towards our actual taxes and water bills, which we have already paid in what is referred to in mortgage circles as "timely fashion."<br /><br /> We were not surprised. This is the third time-the third time that we know of-that Chase has tried to make us pay our neighbor's water bill.<br /><br /> We refinanced with Chase in 2004 at a rate that was, and still is, pretty good, not to mention that it was and still is a fixed rate mortgage. Perhaps it's the fixed rate thing that gets under Chase's corporate skin, because unlike any of the eight other banks who've held our mortgages over the years, Chase keeps trying to make us pay it more money than we owe. The vehicle for this petty larceny is escrow for tax and insurance payments which are, to put it politely, enhanced.<br /><br /> At first, we had no problem with paying our taxes and insurance through Chase. We've had the arrangement with other banks and none of them ever tried to filch more than we owed, or at least not this obviously. My wife and I share bill-paying and check-writing duties, so neither of us noticed the creep of our escrow payments, nor did we connect it with the regular letters from Chase requiring notification of insurance, which we duly sent along. In 2006 we realized something was amiss; our monthly escrow payment was huge. There were phone calls, some of a highly emotional nature, with the affectless warriors of Chase Customer Care. Eventually a polite lady called to tell us in silvery tones that there'd been a mistake, can you imagine, something about unacknowledged notices of coverage, and that we'd shortly receive a check for $4000 and change-funds, we gathered, Chase had been hanging onto for our own good. We allowed as how we'd like Chase to waive our escrow requirement, so we could pay our taxes and premiums ourselves, and the lady told us we could do that.<br /><br /> What she didn't say was "if you dare." To Chase, a home loan with an escrow waiver is an unexploited resource, like the <a href="http://www.anwr.org/">Arctic National Wildlife Refuge</a>.<br /><br /> Since this is the third time in two years Chase has created tax delinquencies that don't exist, we know the drill: We faxed a note to Customer Care illuminating our "concerns," pointing out that our address is not the same as our neighbor's, the water account number is different, the houses are different, the mortgages are different-you know, we're <span style="font-style: italic;">different fucking people</span>. We included copies of the receipts for all the timely tax payments we've made. We referred to, but did not include, the last letter we sent Chase about our neighbor's water bill, from December '09, but we didn't mention the one we sent on the same subject in October '08, as we didn't want to burden Customer Care with too much to think about, much less read. And we ended stirringly by requesting, insisting, demanding that this escrow grift cease immediately.<br /><br /> Reliably, Chase took our remonstrance in stride and ignored it. Our new payment coupon already has a healthy chunk of escrow added, for taxes we've already paid and which Chase claims to have paid too, or intends to pay.<br /><br /> The last time this happened, in 2008, we went through a telephone gauntlet, repeating the story endlessly, receiving assorted "work case numbers," which were never recognized by anyone we spoke with, and collecting the names of every Customer Care Representative we spoke to, which got confusing because they only offer first names. And we continue to pay our principle and interest on time. No response. Zilch.<br /><br /> Eventually we sent certified letters, return receipt requested, to assorted Chase departments-Customer Care, Tax, Escrow Removal-and personally to David B. Lowman, CEO of Chase Home Finance, and Jamie Dimon, CEO of JP Morgan Chase, the mother ship. We made our case, included our documentation and declared that if we did not receive satisfaction we would file reports with the Attorney General's Office, the CAC, the Better Business Bureau and Santa. <br /><br /> Lowman's receipt didn't come back to us for three months, so we were not surprised to hear <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSN2419665720100624">Dennis Kucinich snap at him</a> for Chase's spectacular foot-dragging on mortgage modification. Yes, foot-dragging seems to be the Lowman Way, except last April, when he told Barney Frank of the House Financial Services Committee hearing that aggrieved Chase mortgage holders should come to him with their concerns, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/04/14/jpmorgan-executive-mobbed_n_537508.html">then hot-footed it the hell out of there</a> when a group of them actually did.<br /><br /> Someone evidently read the one we sent to Dimon, because we got a call from an <span style="font-style: italic;">oberleutnant </span></span><span style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">of the Executive Resolution Center (Orwellian, no?), who made it chillingly clear that the only way to get rid of the escrow was to pay it off. Could we find out if we're still paying for the neighbor's water? How about copies of the numerous delinquency alerts Chase claims to have sent us and we never received (maybe the neighbors did)? Not a chance. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /> Far be it from us to suggest that Mr. Dimon, a man the <span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times</span> calls <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/15/business/15chase.html?scp=1&sq=jamie%20dimon,%20show%20of%20power&st=cse">"a financial superstar"</a> and Huffpo calls <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/simon-johnson/jamie-dimon-the-most-dang_b_524170.html">"The Most Dangerous Man in America,"</a> tells the troops to squeeze a few extra bucks out of non-risky mortgages. I mean, JP Morgan Chase controls <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rj-eskow/the-case-against-jamie-di_b_540786.html">44% of the derivatives market</a>, whatever that may be. $82.06 doesn't even qualify as chump change.<br /><br /> It's the principle of the thing, we suppose. Whether it's billions in dicey investments or just a few bucks of funny escrow, take a shot and if no one's the wiser, no one's the wiser.<br /><br /> It's very different from the attitude Matt Taibbi captured so brilliantly in <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/12697/64796">his description of Goldman Sachs</a>, the "great vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity, etc." Chase Home Finance is less squid than weasel: a rabid weasel, wrapped around my house, pointy little claws relentlessly poking-behind the sofa cushions, in our wallets, next door on the neighbor's water meter-for any spare change or folding bills it can sweep into its fetid maw before someone shoos it away with a broom.<br /><br /> It is a busy weasel. We thought paying our neighbor's water bill was a mistake too stupid to be anything but honest, but it turns out Chase pulls this stuff all the time. At the ample <a href="http://www.complaintsboard.com/bycompany/chase-home-finance-a1063.html">Chase Home Finance section on the Complaints Board Website</a>, there's a post from a guy Chase is escrowing for taxes on property he doesn't own. On the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#%21/group.php?gid=274963764543">Chase Home Finance Sucks Facebook Page</a>, we read of a man escrowed for taxes due (and paid) for the year before his mortgage was taken over by Chase.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.la.bbb.org/Business-Report/Chase-Home-Finance-100018450">The Los Angeles Better Business Bureau</a> awards Chase Home Finance an <span style="font-style: italic;">F</span> for reliability, which makes us think Chase really doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks of it--which is exactly the attitude we would recommend to Chase if we were its therapist or mother. Perhaps it shouldn't be surprising, but it somehow is, that the same banks and bankers that thought big enough to drive the whole economy over a cliff also think--and behave--really, really small.<br /><br />To paraphrase <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiNVy5nfbcQ">Lady Bracknell</a>: To swindle someone once may be regarded as a mistake; to swindle the same someone in the same way repeatedly looks like a business plan.<br /><br /> I'll be chronicling this episode of our ongoing struggle to pay Chase no more than we owe it here. This time we're hoping to keep our postage expenditures down and to avoid hyperventilating on the phone. My prediction: they'll escrow us for David B. Lowman's water bill.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > of the Executive Resolution Center (Orwellian, no?), who made it chillingly clear that the only way to get rid of the escrow was to pay it off. Could we find out if we're still paying for the neighbor's water? How about copies of the numerous delinquency alerts Chase claims to have sent us and we never received (maybe the neighbors did)? Not a chance. </span>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-56927332394027468562009-10-17T21:30:00.000-07:002009-10-17T21:50:31.845-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_U8q_RiP-o2tuIaTiPmzFd_FepfCHvTFVPZsUz0gHtViK-NKBR2PBfMlbsHQSyHcS7LyYpF7ccXPjR54SEJU8qoe_j8JIcSPtiFzWzZHM14QaPV2VlF9s6A_Tzn3WQDBLZs/s1600-h/Toby+UVM+Dacks+042.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_U8q_RiP-o2tuIaTiPmzFd_FepfCHvTFVPZsUz0gHtViK-NKBR2PBfMlbsHQSyHcS7LyYpF7ccXPjR54SEJU8qoe_j8JIcSPtiFzWzZHM14QaPV2VlF9s6A_Tzn3WQDBLZs/s400/Toby+UVM+Dacks+042.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393793742978681586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">JOHN BROWN’S BODY LIES A-MOLDERING IN UPSTATE NEW YORK</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">Who knew?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">Who knew that the final resting place of John Brown, who earned fame and infamy in Kansas and Virginia, was the rocky soil of North Elba, New York, an Adirondack hamlet just outside Lake Placid?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">I didn't. I assumed he was buried in Virginia, where he was hung after his trial and conviction on charges of murder, treason and conspiracy for the raid he led on the federal armory at Harper's Ferry on October 16, 1859, a hundred and fifty years ago. Brown had other plans, though. He didn't want to be buried in Virginia because he didn't want to be buried in a coffin made by slaves. So after his December 2nd execution, Brown's wife shipped his body north, first to New York City, where she engaged a Brooklyn undertaker named Jacob Hopper to prepare it for burial. Hopper's receipt itemizes his services: keeping corpse on ice, washing and soaping corpse out, etc. Then the body was transported to North Elba, where Brown had owned a small spread since 1849. And by the way, although Brown is always depicted with a flowing white beard (as he is in the tableaux at the </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://johnbrownwaxmuseum.com/">John Brown Wax Museum</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> in Harpers Ferry), by the time of the raid it had been trimmed to less Biblical proportions.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">How do I know all this? Because the extremely knowledgeable and practiced docents at the </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://nysparks.state.ny.us/historic-sites/29/details.aspx">John Brown Farm State Historic Site</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">, which my wife and I visited in August, told me. It's a marvel they are so practiced because the John Brown Farm is not easy to find. En route, we saw not a single sign pointing the way or even noting the place's existence. We just noodled in and around Lake Placid in search, until we suddenly found ourselves on John Brown Road, which ends in a cul-de-sac, beside which are the house itself, a barn and the little graveyard where Brown and other members of the Harpers Ferry raiding party, including several of Brown's numerous sons, are interred. Close by and towering over the surroundings is a peculiar-looking structure that turns out to be a ski-jump.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">It's a haunting place. The house is small and unexceptional except that, as one of the guides mentioned several times, "We are standing on the same floorboards John Brown stood on." There are a few artifacts, including Mr. Hopper's receipt and the Browns' bed, which looks too small for an adult to recline on, which turns out to have been the point. At the time, sleeping upright was thought to prevent, or at least discourage, consumption.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">It's no accident that John Brown ended up in the Adirondacks. He bought his land (for a dollar an acre) from a wealthy abolitionist named Gerrit Smith who had established a land grant program for free blacks in hopes of establishing a black community in the Adirondacks called Timbuktoo. Brown moved to the area to provide guidance and help to the settlers, although he spent much of the 1850's in and out of Kansas. Adirondack soil is rocky and the growing season is about eight weeks long. Most of the newcomers Gerrit Smith staked moved on. Timbuktoo faded away.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">John Brown, on the other hand, looms ever larger in the national psyche, either a great martyr to a just and necessary cause, or our first domestic terrorist. He is still so controversial that Todd Bolton, director of the </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.harpersferryhistory.org/index.htm">Harpers Ferry Museum</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> and organizer of "John Brown Remembered," the Museum's anniversary program of events, noted carefully in the </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/10/13/AR2009101302997.html?hpid=moreheadlines">Washington Post</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> that, "We're not celebrating Brown. We're commemorating an important chapter in American history."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">The Museum is not alone in this. Last Friday morning, some </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.myphl17.com/sns-ap-us-john-browns-march,0,2528316.story">three hundred history enthusiasts</a> started from Dargan, Md. to follow in the footsteps of the original raiding party of twenty-one. There was an observance on Friday in Torrington, Connecticut, where he was born and there's another planned in Akron, Ohio, where he lived for a while. At the end of the month, Yale hosts a <a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.yale.edu/glc/john-brown/index.htm">conference</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> on John Brown and his legacy.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">For such a dramatic figure, John Brown has never fit well on screen or stage. Johnny Cash played him in the 80's television special </span><em style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><a href="http://www.allmovie.com/work/north-and-south-tv-35639">North and South</a></em><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> and looked like a man with a fake beard. Raymond Massey played him twice, first in </span><em style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><a href="http://www.allmovie.com/work/santa-fe-trail-42843">Santa Fe Trail</a></em><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> (You may well wonder why a movie about Bleeding Kansas is called </span><em style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">Santa Fe Trail</em><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">, and despite having seen it, I cannot begin to explain), and fifteen years later in </span><em style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><a href="http://www.allmovie.com/work/seven-angry-men-109534">Seven Angry Men</a></em><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">, an </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAmy0uKDs-g">excerpt of which</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> can be seen on YouTube, where it was posted by a devotee of the film's costar, Debra Paget. Massey was also in the Broadway production of Stephen Vincent Benet's epic poem<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> </span></span><em style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><a href="http://www.ibdb.com/production.php?id=2217">John Brown's Body</a></em><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> in 1953. Raymond Massie was a great actor, but the great John Brown drama, stage or screen, remains to be created.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">Help may be on the way. Both<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> </span></span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://abolitionist-john-brown.blogspot.com/2007/04/martin-quentin-and-john-should.html">Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorcese</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> have expressed interest in doing movies about John Brown. Tarantino is no doubt disappointed that the victims of the notorious Pottawatomie Massacre in Kansas numbered only five, but cheered that they were hacked to death with broadswords. With or without a good new movie version, John Brown's truth--or his legend, or his aura, or what Benet in his poem called "The pure elixir, the American thing"--will almost certainly go marching on.</span>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-56054564236974280742009-08-21T12:39:00.000-07:002009-08-21T12:50:47.266-07:00<div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:times new roman;"><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />THY NEIGHBOR’S ASS</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Last month marked the twentieth anniversary of my family’s move to our current address, so I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ve</span> been thinking about my neighborhood and the whole idea of neighborhood, at no time more strongly than a couple of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1250883658_0">Saturday morning</span>’s ago, when I was walking home with George from his off-leash hour in <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1250883658_1">Prospect Park</span>. At the top of the block I noticed one of my neighbors, a man who lives eight or ten houses up from me, retrieving his garbage can from between two parked cars, where it had been left by the sanitation guys. My neighbor was wearing a t-shirt and the hand that was not holding the garbage can, which he cupped demurely over his front bits. He wore nothing else, naught, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nada</span>, zip, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gornisht</span> – a backside outside in the morning breeze. It’s only witnesses besides me seemed to be the fellow’s wife, who stood in a bathrobe at the top of their stoop, smiling, and the petite lady of the house next door, who was sweeping the sidewalk in front of her house, her eyes fiercely focused on her broom. George and I walked by, and I said “Quite a way to begin the day,” with perhaps a shade too much pep. She nodded as she swept.<br /><br />It’s things like the unexpected appearance of my neighbor’s ass that remind me that no matter how gentrified Park Slope gets, it’s still Brooklyn.. <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1250883658_2">Manhattan</span> may have the flash, the glamor and location, location, location, but for deep dish, dyed in the wool eccentricity, you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> got to come to Brooklyn.<br /><br />I speak as a long-time resident, though hardly a pioneer. By 1989, Park Slope was widely thought to be Over, the bargains gone, the discreet charms of the neighborhood growing more bourgeois by the minute. The main drag, <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1250883658_3">Seventh Avenue</span>, had a Benetton and two restaurants with tablecloths – but it also had shoe repair shops, butchers, bodegas and dark bars specializing in shots and beers for a hardscrabble, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">beefily</span> forearmed clientele. The bars had names like Mooney’s, Minsky’s and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Snooky</span>’s; some of them had no names at all.<br /><br />We’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ve</span> come a long way since then. There are no cobblers or butchers on Seventh anymore, and your best bet for a boiler-maker is probably Farrell’s in <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1250883658_4">Windsor Terrace</span>. On the other hand, if by “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">brewski</span>” you mean coffee, Seventh Avenue can accommodate you many times over, likewise if you’re looking for a new cell phone, a manicure or a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">refi</span>.<br /><br />Not that the path of gentrification has been smooth or direct. For a while, there was a store around the corner that sold fried ravioli – just fried ravioli. The place <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">didn</span>’t make it, but not for lack of free samples; indeed, the samples may have been part of the problem. Still, the ravioli place lasted longer than the Benetton did. Today, someone sells custom-made makeup out of the same space. When the white tablecloth restaurant that replaced <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Snooky</span>’s closed recently, there were local murmurs about retribution and karma. There is resistance to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">nabe</span> getting too high-toned. <br /><br />I don’t think there’s much to worry about, not so long as we have folks like my drawer-dropping neighbor, or the Cat Lady across the street or the Sweeper or Opera Man, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">plumpish</span> gent who strolls the streets giving forth with song in a manner reminiscent of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1250883658_5">Adam <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Sandler</span></span>’s <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1250883658_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">SNL</span></span> character, only not so charming. There’s no telling when Opera Man’s countertenor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">stylings</span> will assail the ear: perhaps when you’re trying to read the paper, perhaps when you’re in bed waiting for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Ambien</span> to kick in. My wife believes he must be a professional singer, whereas I think he’s simply a lunatic with pipes. If I’m walking George and we pass Opera Man in mid-aria, he – that is, George – growls, because he knows passive aggression when he smells it. I sympathize, but hold the leash tightly. After all, it’s his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">nabe</span> too, I assume. This is Brooklyn, where the weirdos are more than part of the passing parade; they live here.<br /></span>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-67064143928014448092009-08-12T13:20:00.000-07:002009-08-21T12:49:33.046-07:00<div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><span style="font-size:130%;">THE WAY OF THE NOTARY</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Yesterday we discovered that a document Toby needed for his return to college in a couple of weeks needed to be notarized. We soon learned that, despite the vast number of establishments of drug stores and real estate offices that have signs in their windows advertising the presence of a notary, a notary is hard to find when you need one.<br /><br />Of course, that isn't very often, but when you need one, you need one. And therein lies the germ of my next act. I'm going to become a free-lance, part-time notary.<br /><br />How much training can be required? From what I can tell so far, not much. It's not like going back to school for that Phd or even learning to drive a manual. This retraining has, I'm happy to say, not yet terrified and depressed, though I haven't actually begun it so it may be too early to tell.<br /><br />Soon as I put out my shingle, foks will be dropping by with stuff they need notarized. What a pleasant break in the roiling tedium of creation that is the general mood here in my office. I'll get out my little stamp and collect a fee. The fellow Helen and Toby finally tracked down this morning charged $4 for his imprimatur. I'm sure I can do better, especially if I make house calls and find ways to persuade people they need more documents notarized. I wonder if I can mess with the ink I'll use for the official stamp. Different colors? Metallics?<br /><br />This could be the part-time gig I've dreamed of.<br /></span></div></div>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-19885822070453605452009-06-29T09:58:00.000-07:002009-06-29T10:01:21.272-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">MEANWHILE, BACK AT HUFFPO... </span><br /></div><br />I'm blogging there too. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alfred-gingold/holy-crap_b_218417.html">Check it out.</a>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-12525858205128359552009-06-01T21:15:00.000-07:002009-06-02T09:36:46.288-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">PIP HELIX EXPLAINED</span><br /></div><br /> If you exit the Palisades Parkway South to cross the George Washington Bridge, immediately before merging onto the Bridge traffic, you pass beneath a pedestrian overpass from which hangs an unadorned green sign with white lettering that says Pip Helix.<br /><br /> I noticed this sign for the first time two Saturdays ago, after what must have been hundreds, if not thousands, of passages under it, depending on how long it’s been hanging there. I assume the strange words identify something in the immediate area, but what? The pedestrian overpass? The merge ramp? A Native American ley line?<br /><br /> Google yielded tantalizing leads:<br />– A band called Pip Helix put out an album in 1996. <br />– One or more individuals calling themselves Pip Helix are occasional posters on a couple of Websites called, respectively, USASexguide.com and Cute Overload.<br />– Pip Helix is mentioned in <a href="http://jen.blogg.se/">Jennys Blogg</a>, which is otherwise in Swedish.<br />– Pip Helix (The band? The Swede? The sex guide aficionado?) is a project of <a href="http://www.simcopc.com/projects.htm">Simco Engineering</a>.<br /> Tantalizing yes, helpful, no. Pip Helix remained a puzzlement.<br /><br />After a day or two of deep thought, my wife and I recalled that the ramp that goes from the toll area to the GW proper is spiral-shaped – not unlike a helix, you might say, if you’d ever heard the word helix used to describe anything other than a strand of DNA, which I certainly have not. Even though the sign is at the very end of the entrance, arguably not on the ramp at all but rather the merge lane, our best guess was that Pip Helix referred to the on-ramp because it’s the only thing around that’s, you know, helical (surprising adjectival form, no?).<br /><br />Now only one question remained: Pourqui Pip?<br /><br /> More googling and much too much time pottering around the <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.nj.gov">New Jersey Website</a> were both to no avail. I told myself all would be revealed eventually, but first I’d have to let it go, stop thinking about, just as I did some time ago, when I couldn’t recall the name of the actor who’d played Ishmael in John Huston’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Moby Dick</span> and less than an hour after I’d vowed to stop thinking about the damn movie, which wasn’t really that good to begin with, I suddenly realized it was Richard Basehart.<br /><br /> Finally I called my friend John, who has lived in New Jersey for twenty years or so and who I hoped might have some knowledge of local lore. No dice. He suggested Google, of course, and Mapquest, which I had already tried too. Something came over his intercom at that moment and he said he’d call me back. When he did he was strangely quiet.<br /><br /> “I know what it is but I’m reluctant to say. I think you’ll be embarrassed.”<br /> “Tell me!” I yelled. Yelling works more often then one would think.<br /> “Palisades Interstate Parkway.”<br /> “Oh.”<br /> “Yes.”<br /> “Is that what everyone calls it in New Jersey? Have you ever called the Parkway the Pip?”<br /> “Not before today.”<br /> “How did you figure it out?”<br /> “It’s an Enn-jay thing, baby.”<input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-34497622241980531652009-05-30T19:09:00.000-07:002009-05-30T22:53:13.230-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">DEAR GAIL,</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Thanks for mentioning my millennial list in your <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/30/opinion/30collins.html">hilarious column</a>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Milennium Book</span>, as you recall, was published in 1991; just think of the '90s bad ideas we didn't get to include. The living hell that was the dial-up Internet connection – a rotten idea that could very well have made the list, had we but known. <br /><br />In fact, re-reading it in the harsh light of the present, not to mention your Early Bird Edition of our new millennium’s worst ideas (and I couldn’t agree with you more about reality television, btw; nothing against schadenfreude, but it's just not enough), I’d say the list needs some tweaking.<br /><br />I’ll stand by Chamberlain’s appeasement, trial by fire or water (can we include water-boarding here?), foot binding, flagellants, the ontological proof of the existence of god, trench warfare and scientific creationism. They were and, imho, still are, a bunch of bad, bad ideas.<br /><br />But wine in a box need not be bad at all, especially if you’re willing to pay more than you think you ought to pay for wine in a box. I don’t like the fact that you can’t see how much wine is left in the box you're drinking from, which can lead to drinking more than one thought one might, followed by suddenly and horribly running out of wine. Still, there are worse things in the world: hazelnut flavored coffee, for instance, or Bud Light Lime, or all flavored coffees and light beers, for that matter. And I’m only considering beverages.<br /><br />And what's sociology doing on the list? What was I thinking?<br /><br />Finally, my view of French mime has undergone turbulence and, finally, a sea change, especially since last week’s auction of items from Marcel Marceau’s estate, the proceeds from which from which went to retire the considerable debt Marceau left at the time of his death in 2007 -- as if anyone need further proof that mime is not an easy gig. <br /><br />But in an age in which political correctness and fear of violent revenge have rendered the traditional targets of ridicule and abuse -- people weaker, poorer, or sometimes simply different from ourselves -- strictly off limits, mime has been there for us all.<br /><br /> No matter your color, creed or station in life, everyone can make fun of mimes. And many do. And do, and do again. And that's a good thing. <br /> <br />And yet.<br /><br />Without mime, Shields and Yarnell would’ve had to retrain and Bill Irwin probably wouldn’t be so slim.<br /><br /> Besides, how annoying is mime, really? Compared to, say, Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals or Quentin Tarantino movies, it’s not even close.<br /><br /> Mimes of the world, <span style="font-style: italic;">pardonez-moi</span>.<br /></div></div>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-22011033271421982022009-03-03T10:33:00.000-08:002009-03-03T11:03:15.379-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">MOVE OVER, DAKOTA<br /></div><br />I love New York's titled apartment buildings. I'm not talking about those enormous, turn of the (last) century piles like the Dakota, Apthorp or Belnord, massive structures which contain some of the city's grandest apartments and toniest residents. I mean the innumerable smaller buildings around town, modestly ornamented and sometimes downright shabby, whose names conjure a grandeur utterly belied by their appearance. Sometimes the names are classically august, sometimes they seem to be tributes to some forgotten builder's wife or daughter or mother (I've never seen a building with a man's name) and sometimes they're horrendous puns. Here are some of my faves:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRdjhAg2YkIrts_AHkwVL1Zp9XreacW2tPx3Qu7QlavLkK1ofhXbxhkP0GvLA4Yc8tMd_rs-xneOUZ2WJdQN9YR0WjipDf3n7A2lKLuLN_GDZZwhX4ST7dbv6YlNB51WRcG4/s1600-h/The+Supreme.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZRdjhAg2YkIrts_AHkwVL1Zp9XreacW2tPx3Qu7QlavLkK1ofhXbxhkP0GvLA4Yc8tMd_rs-xneOUZ2WJdQN9YR0WjipDf3n7A2lKLuLN_GDZZwhX4ST7dbv6YlNB51WRcG4/s200/The+Supreme.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309036051964334962" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5VCeU-VkPZfAVzoS4fn6Im_AIBPiyyu0umPtLe6H-yB3MnWkxyY7tH-fYIjnrqVG_W7TMuvJv156pSf2dEDhgUjwKT68fEtCvxskepAPYtYcxPA_IDVPbgBhCvUTsglQc-M/s1600-h/tuxedo.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5VCeU-VkPZfAVzoS4fn6Im_AIBPiyyu0umPtLe6H-yB3MnWkxyY7tH-fYIjnrqVG_W7TMuvJv156pSf2dEDhgUjwKT68fEtCvxskepAPYtYcxPA_IDVPbgBhCvUTsglQc-M/s200/tuxedo.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309036054997454914" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzAE4fDm_vGhVs0YsmnIgnKW8Zt1PrTbC2TWOCgsUHiiz1bEFIREQY4Zv7z4GgBQ-Gv1wf70pelmKJSuB6rX1hZ9cF9rHTHg_XXzPFRhtkWGwWL6aTpsZ4agZb3nyVDed4u0k/s1600-h/The+Olga.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzAE4fDm_vGhVs0YsmnIgnKW8Zt1PrTbC2TWOCgsUHiiz1bEFIREQY4Zv7z4GgBQ-Gv1wf70pelmKJSuB6rX1hZ9cF9rHTHg_XXzPFRhtkWGwWL6aTpsZ4agZb3nyVDed4u0k/s200/The+Olga.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309036061143627554" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uCzT7tla_ZcOdYb0HA7r_Ap3GYIG2nmc7qhP83NKC5y_FTHhnWlYOV_FvA18WMAnuB24k51ERNeEOr-oZsXtcj9gN_9pmZ3yJY2Urniy5QUKiYa9JsZleM3OzSTvNim0F9g/s1600-h/The+Lorraine.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uCzT7tla_ZcOdYb0HA7r_Ap3GYIG2nmc7qhP83NKC5y_FTHhnWlYOV_FvA18WMAnuB24k51ERNeEOr-oZsXtcj9gN_9pmZ3yJY2Urniy5QUKiYa9JsZleM3OzSTvNim0F9g/s200/The+Lorraine.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309036059165491026" border="0" /></a>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-13999583258066644942009-01-05T20:42:00.000-08:002009-01-05T20:54:19.617-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">ASSHOLE FOR JESUS</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>“His friends and adversaries recall the time in the 1970s when the musical “Hair” first came to this city, and Mr. Riner, upset by its nudity, quietly interrupted the show by climbing on stage, a Bible in hand.” – “Lawmaker in Kentucky Mixes Piety and Politics” NYT 1/3/09 <span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><br />Do we think he reimbursed the audience? Or did he deem his quiet display of superior rectitude sufficient recompense?<br /><br />My nerves. <br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-47201842916102320662008-12-24T21:57:00.000-08:002008-12-24T21:58:58.222-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">BLESSINGS OF THE SEASON<br /></div> <br /> My wife says the holidays feel shorter this year because <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230184570_0">Thanksgiving</span> came relatively late in November. To me the holidays feel <span style="font-style: italic;">longer</span> this year because they started on November 4th, when I waited almost an hour and a half to vote. I’ve voted at the same polling station for nineteen years and the longest I’ve ever waited was fifteen minutes, max. Never have I waited on such a jolly line, full of smiles and amiable chat. Some voters had brought books and magazines. I stood with a friend and his eighteen year old son, who was proudly voting for the first time. A couple of neighbors said hello to me on their way out; one leaned in as she passed and warned me to be on the lookout for dual Republican inspectors minding the District 21 voting machine. “There’s supposed to be one Republican and one Democrat, not two Republicans. We reported it,” she said.<br /> I am aware that the world outlook has, by most measures, deteriorated since Nov. 4th. The economy continues to collapse; violence and uncertainty dominate the international stage; the Knicks continue to suck, albeit now in a more up-tempo way.<br /> But the light at the end of the tunnel shines on. Even now, during the Most Wonderful Time of the Year with its countless opportunities for soul-flaying introspection, the thrill isn’t gone. Hope is still in the air. Any day, the words “tectonic shift” will start appearing on the Op Ed page like toadstools after a rainstorm. For the record, I want to stately clearly that no one is shifting more tectonically than I.<br /> For example, we’ve had our living room painted – for the first time since the Clinton years. This was not an easy change to undertake, even though the living room walls had seen better days, having withstood well over a decade’s worth of fingerprints, exploding champagne bottles, projectile vomiting and people who talk with their mouths full. Still, the ambience was wonderful: comfortably bohemian, chicly shabby, unfussily inviting and many other jolly terms designed to defuse my wife’s urges toward home improvement. Long, elegant curls of dried paint – at least I thought they were elegant – hung from the ceiling, reminders of the Great Leak of 2002. The leak was repaired, but the paint dangled on. No more, and that’s a good thing, especially now that the painters have left. With luck, that will be the last paint job I’ll ever have to cope with in my lifetime, and I don’t mean that in a morbid way.<br /> Even the dog has found the new zeitgeist, and no one has ever called George a quick learner. George is a small terrier whose immense charm can be easily derailed by other dogs sniffing him at the wrong moment, or people coming too close when the light isn’t right, or black garbage bags wafting ominously, or taunting squirrels or a whole lot of other creatures and things great and small. When fussed, George lunges at offenders and barks in a surprisingly scary way for a fifteen pound dog. This can be a real drag on the atmosphere, especially when the object of George’s (let’s-not-call-it) bloodlust is, say, a school kid who wants to pet him.<br /> It would be nice if George channeled Obama’s forgiving, hold-no-grudges-even-against-Lieberman attitude, but that is not George’s Way. Instead, George has honed his aggressive impulses. No more school children, no more dogs his own size. George’s irritants these days are big, beefy beasts wearing <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230184570_1">prong collars</span> who have unknowingly trespassed onto what George considers his <span style="font-style: italic;">terroir</span>. The morning of November 5th, George and I were walking in <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230184570_2">Prospect Park</span> and passed a dog and person we see several times a week. The other gent and I nodded and smiled to each other and the dogs seemed to do what they usually do, ignore each other. The other dog looks to be about 150 heavily muscled pounds; he sports a collar with studs in it and a scrotum the size of a grapefruit. George abruptly went into his heavy-breathing, pre-attack crouch. Then he was snarling, growling, baring his teeth – everything except, you know, actually<span style="font-style: italic;"> touching </span>the other dog. To my immense relief, the big dog did not seem to notice George’s throwdown and George soon grew bored and pranced off proudly to cadge treats from his usual vendors among the morning walkers, as if he knew he was the dog he was waiting for.<br /> Preparing for our bright new day has not been easy. Like many fellow citizens, I’ve found the last eight years a strain, and in order to keep my blood pressure from elevating dangerously every time the 6:30 news rolled around, I cultivated <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230184570_3">defense mechanisms</span> – storing up nasty jokes about W and his unindicted co-conspirators, tearing off angry letters to my congressfolk, etc. <br /> Now it looks like I won’t be needing these mechanisms much longer, and while I’m looking forward to a president who won’t embarrass the nation every time he opens his mouth, it’s a tough adjustment to make because, as any student of Freud knows, defense mechanisms can be, well, defensive. That is to say, they react with violence when their necessity comes into question.<br /> So it has been with me. My defense mechanisms realized that by January 20th they’d be out of a job and in response they attacked me – my head, to be specific. Within days of Obama’s victory, I developed an enormous toothache, which hurt like hell and caused the side of my jaw to bulge like one of Brando’s jowls in <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230184570_4">The Godfather</span></span>. Then I got a nasty <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1230184570_5">eye infection</span>, which was a recurrence of an eye infection that had last occurred in 1988. It waited all this time. Then I started sneezing and coughing and it turned out not to be a cold, instead an allergic reaction. To what? Don’t ask me, my allergies cleared up when I was twelve. Until now.<br /> Then my son badly sprained his ankle playing pick-up basketball – just in time for the holiday. Then my wife caught something – milder than flu but much worse than a cold, very hard to shake to boot. And we’ve both noticed that a disturbing number of friends and acquaintances are suddenly coming down with something or other too. And we’ve noticed too that a disturbing number of these sniffling friends and acquaintances voted for Obama.<br /> You do the math.<br /> Please understand, I am not a conspiracy theorist. I never thought fluoridation was a communist plot and I do not believe the government is reading my mind through my dental work. But can there be any doubt that this welter of discomforts and inconveniences is the parting shot of a fading administration? I’m not accusing, I’m just saying that my view of the matter has shifted, though not yet tectonically.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-55942315045560111982008-10-27T08:37:00.001-07:002008-10-27T08:52:55.633-07:00MYSTERY SPOON SENDER IDENTIFIED<br /><br />My sister bought it on eBay and had the seller send it directly to me from Eugene, Oregon, where I know no one, hence my puzzlement at the parcel from those parts. Certainly, it is a charming reminder of both my left-handedness and deep-seated affection for Georg Jensen, whose tiny and all but illegible hallmark may be seen on the back of the spoon. Who knew? It's true that I, like Leonardo da Vinci and the Babe, am left-handed. Furthermore, I was a Georg Jensen fan as a kid. I loved the ads for fancy glass and silverware and I really was astounded that "Georg" had no final g. If I had been more sensitive and introspective, I would've remembered it all and realized that it came from my sis. Refurbishment of my character continues.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-83615265886723842702008-10-27T07:56:00.000-07:002008-10-27T08:08:15.131-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">OBAMARAMA</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw29H_e2ouXl66YxESn1l_w6njSeyuo-IlGBO_4szG7At0u7BtvwArT8WkTjqkWmdfoG9NlZmpCyni_MDm-nJRBICkkyAjpNzO8AHcu1LTsySC81BtkfejAeFsUnYtAER9XvA/s1600-h/Obama+Bento+2.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw29H_e2ouXl66YxESn1l_w6njSeyuo-IlGBO_4szG7At0u7BtvwArT8WkTjqkWmdfoG9NlZmpCyni_MDm-nJRBICkkyAjpNzO8AHcu1LTsySC81BtkfejAeFsUnYtAER9XvA/s320/Obama+Bento+2.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261849090865662722" border="0" /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2j8hO30Jaed-CnVuD_7TNhla1mmQDMTI-eb_9q0U40LRif-lR-MT6m-2pccX2i2pAWv-lFqL0v-_D_8N7yR2AcXUdNq5Rg_8z4W5zegSp0dXLPQfc45mBJnvgp5cqv8kb5s/s1600-h/Obama+manneguin.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2j8hO30Jaed-CnVuD_7TNhla1mmQDMTI-eb_9q0U40LRif-lR-MT6m-2pccX2i2pAWv-lFqL0v-_D_8N7yR2AcXUdNq5Rg_8z4W5zegSp0dXLPQfc45mBJnvgp5cqv8kb5s/s320/Obama+manneguin.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261849091868885378" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4VfS7D0qemUyAx0O_q-NTlK-zrzAY1Z2DPfQduZeYUPOxXnsSjLaQaeSH1SLRCrh3z3xHER4r-YhZXnXdEe_Eua_mCqEAejzkKq0eLgSrKnOk77GCsO0LyqAm-byZGFbfR7w/s1600-h/Hop+Obama.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4VfS7D0qemUyAx0O_q-NTlK-zrzAY1Z2DPfQduZeYUPOxXnsSjLaQaeSH1SLRCrh3z3xHER4r-YhZXnXdEe_Eua_mCqEAejzkKq0eLgSrKnOk77GCsO0LyqAm-byZGFbfR7w/s320/Hop+Obama.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261849087337925794" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArqu-S7r7H1S4coUsr6UXh06xBnKyRMyIwignjEYDZ5dj0i5VEcEPdfPbzw0AHPNDwK49zyaB_9in9DxWQEUnqGlaIajTEF4aHZ1SoIyJm-sI_OSz9WwIreaieDAvVpRgFxg/s1600-h/Obama+manneguin%26sky.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArqu-S7r7H1S4coUsr6UXh06xBnKyRMyIwignjEYDZ5dj0i5VEcEPdfPbzw0AHPNDwK49zyaB_9in9DxWQEUnqGlaIajTEF4aHZ1SoIyJm-sI_OSz9WwIreaieDAvVpRgFxg/s320/Obama+manneguin%26sky.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261849086090370274" border="0" /></a>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-29991558073714642342008-10-15T21:56:00.000-07:002008-10-15T22:07:30.444-07:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Disappearing Dog Waste Station</span><br /> At first I thought it was an old-school mailbox, sturdy and peak-roofed, mounted on a thick post stuck in the ground on the edge of the Long Meadow in Prospect Park, not far from the Garfield Place entrance to the park, through which George and I usually pass at the start of our morning constitutional. <br /> Then I wondered why there would be a mailbox on the edge of the Long Meadow in Prospect Park, not far from the Garfield Place entrance, etc. <br /> Then I noticed that the long blue streamer flying from a hole above the mail slot was a length of plastic doggy bags, and the mail slot was not a slot at all, rather a hinged flap opening inward. <br /> The dog waste station offered free bags and a place to put them after use, a useful convenience for bagless dog people or those too dim to realize the nearby garbage can also accepts properly packaged dog waste, and even that which is not. I have never met such dog people, but I’m sure they exist. <br /> Less than a week after I first noticed it, the dog waste station is gone, leaving only a hole in the dry earth. Did somebody steal it? Who would want to steal a dog waste station? Even considering its camp value? Or was the removal order from the highest reaches of the Prospect Park bureaucracy, a tacit acknowledgment by the responsible parties of the dog waste station’s stupendous ugliness? <br /> One doesn’t expect one will ever know. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabWe1hZAkUi91PPBhjkmmCrMOjKXCDUkenyh3rTa9TwvX7t4rC-YiiIBpRcKyAqDvER6vNdJ7Dk04yTD8akQ5lBoePZc94F18H2KdyDzRNPoUoPJe8FgPj48c5ikckNBwrPs/s1600-h/dog+waste+station+2.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabWe1hZAkUi91PPBhjkmmCrMOjKXCDUkenyh3rTa9TwvX7t4rC-YiiIBpRcKyAqDvER6vNdJ7Dk04yTD8akQ5lBoePZc94F18H2KdyDzRNPoUoPJe8FgPj48c5ikckNBwrPs/s200/dog+waste+station+2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257611615912500018" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44M1u9JO1X3yQDDivo4EVi7kywD2Lz3ndk4mtee5x2J1UtMeIQpGvvoCR1CoWC5BWJBh8CtPQKcXcoFDY6oFv9c0kMRAN_yA5GanWX4vishFoSDoNQBTk0arc7IVVkpY2qpE/s1600-h/site+of+the+dog+waste+station+2.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44M1u9JO1X3yQDDivo4EVi7kywD2Lz3ndk4mtee5x2J1UtMeIQpGvvoCR1CoWC5BWJBh8CtPQKcXcoFDY6oFv9c0kMRAN_yA5GanWX4vishFoSDoNQBTk0arc7IVVkpY2qpE/s200/site+of+the+dog+waste+station+2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257611613708651682" /></a>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-41700528801461938392008-08-15T14:44:00.001-07:002008-08-15T15:04:42.644-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4Bfr-IdlCQOGdIBHavrdeS0WJhlywPqnoBp1vZkaef0cDiu1VOFPxhjw0Le5B2YmCXoUDBHxKgbNLiEHU64Mta5eHzlQQNmLsQgUArj2KC17hEkn4cT2JIKcjgowY3xVLcA/s1600-h/How+to+Do+Things+Right.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4Bfr-IdlCQOGdIBHavrdeS0WJhlywPqnoBp1vZkaef0cDiu1VOFPxhjw0Le5B2YmCXoUDBHxKgbNLiEHU64Mta5eHzlQQNmLsQgUArj2KC17hEkn4cT2JIKcjgowY3xVLcA/s200/How+to+Do+Things+Right.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234863930154037330" /></a><br />R.I.P. -- L. RUST HILLS<br /> <br /> As a teen dilettante during the sixties, I loved <span style="font-style:italic;">Esquire</span>, the <span style="font-style:italic;">other</span> men’s magazine, the you really did buy “for the articles” as boobs were not reliable parts of its editorial lineup. I vividlly recall turning the huge gorgeous pages of one issue and coming upon L. Rust Hills' quietly hilarious “How to Do Four Dumb Tricks with a Pack of Camels.” It was just perfectly funny, both measured and ridiculous. Then I started noticing Hills' pieces in other magazine and I have long cherished my hardback copy of his first collection, <span style="font-style:italic;">How to Do Things Right: The Revelations of a Fussy Man</span>.<br /><br /> I didn't know before reading <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/14/books/14hills.html?_r=1&ref=obituaries&oref=slogin">Hills' obituary</a> that he nurtured and edited many of the terrific writers <span style="font-style:italic;">Esquire</span> published in the 60's, but I still abide by a strategy he advanced in “How to Eat an Ice-Cream Cone:” When you're with a group of people who're getting ice cream cones, get chocolate chip. Chances are no one will ask you for a taste.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-89222340762783485302008-08-10T14:58:00.000-07:002008-08-10T15:26:05.761-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOY1jvzbujD9yrBpYJWWQ-85kqGYJL7HU2cA78LNlUXzcf4ikyyVnmloSSp5iTDFMBINRKSGCMFsUWKUIVeYrJn71Ps3bOVeL4uEaAIZlvP_oMgsr1ksZL3-vAXw0VtZDd4d4/s1600-h/left-handed+spoon+3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOY1jvzbujD9yrBpYJWWQ-85kqGYJL7HU2cA78LNlUXzcf4ikyyVnmloSSp5iTDFMBINRKSGCMFsUWKUIVeYrJn71Ps3bOVeL4uEaAIZlvP_oMgsr1ksZL3-vAXw0VtZDd4d4/s200/left-handed+spoon+3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233017015888960658" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">MYSTERY SPOON</span><br /><br /> Received a left-handed spoon in the mail Friday. I didn’t buy it online or win it on eBay. It just came in the mail, carefully enfolded in patterned tissue paper, tucked into a baggie, swathed in several layers of bubble wrap and stuffed into a small manila envelope. It’s about six and a half inches long and looks streamlined, reminds me a bit of a 50s-era Pontiac hood ornament. <br />According to the envelope's return address, the spoon comes from someone named McCarthy in Eugene, Oregon. <br /><br /> I know no one named McCarthy from Eugene, Oregon. <br /><br /> I am grateful but puzzled. I am left-handed, so the spoon is not wholly inappropriate, but I have never felt the need or desire for left-handed cutlery. Still, it’s a pretty object, much prettier than the other left-handed spoons I found online, of which there are many: <a href="http://www.woodspoon.com/lazyspoon.html">Jonathan’s Lazy Spoon</a> comes in left and right-handed versions, as do a variety of <a href="https://www.homecraft-rolyan.com/app.aspx">Homecraft Roylan’s</a> therapeutic and rehabilitative implements, also <a href="http://www.kitchencarvers.com">Kitchen Carver’s</a> hand-hewn wooden pointed spoons, draining spoons, soup dippers, sauce spoons, jelly spoons, spatulas, spatula spoons and spoontulas (The differences between spatula spoons and spoontulas I leave to others.). <br /><br /> At <a href="http://www.anythingleft-handed.co.uk/">Anything Left-handed</a>, the left version of their jar spoon is six centimeters longer than the right-handed version. I’m not asking why; I assume that a righty who shops at an outfit called Anything Left-handed likes to live dangerously.<br /><br /> Mr. or Ms. McCarthy of Eugene, Oregon, I think of you now as Eugene McCarthy, which isn’t unfitting, as I’m sure only a fundamentally decent and really smart person, like Gene was, would send me a good-looking left-handed spoon out of the clear blue. <br /><br /> So many, many thanks. Who are you and why'd you send me a spoon?Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-70813486270285885392008-08-06T12:43:00.001-07:002008-08-06T12:54:01.339-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">NYT CRINGE WATCH</span><br /><br />Trolling for typos, grammatical errors and bad writing in the NYT is a big part of my morning newspaper ritual. You would think after Judith Miller and Jayson Blair, the soft-core stylings of the sports columnists, William Kristol and whatever-happened-to-Maureen Dowd, the Grey Lady’s gold standard-esque authority would be in tatters. But I still expect the Grey Lady to be, if not perfect, at least staid, decorous, conservative (only grammatically, of course). Instead, the Grey Lady inclines toward the loopy and you have to wonder who’s minding the prose.<br /><br />Take this sentence from an article about Mayor Bloomberg’s Spanish tutor in Aug. 5th’s Metro section: “The tutor, Luis Cardozo, wore a suit — thin white stripes slicing light gray fabric that matched his yellow tie.”<br /><br />Say what?<br /> <br />More in sadness than in anger, I must point out that gray fabric cannot match a yellow tie. Maybe it could comlement it, but that would depend on the particular gray and yellow in question.<br /><br />Catching infelicities like that is a whole lot less disturbing than detecting new NYT tics and trends of language which tend to make me feel that the center is not holding, which is exactly how I felt when I noticed that the Times had used the word three times this week already, and it’s only Wednesday.<br /><br />1. On August 4th, a front page article about a senate race in New Hampshire: “The maverick voters of New Hampshire love to keep politicians guessing. But this state, famous for its libertarian mojo, has shifted so hard toward the Democrats...” – Whoa, maverick and mojo in one paragraph. Talk about an embarrassment of vernacular vitality.<br /> <br />2. Elsewhere in section A was this: “Mr. Obama awoke in St. Petersburg, Fla., ready to talk about an ailing economy and saw this newspaper headline: ‘IT’S A RECESSION.’ The mojo should feel good.” – Hmmm, sounds like Barack's mojo is working, in case anyone was wondering.<br /><br />3. The third mention was in Tuesday’s business section: “Dish appears to have lost its mojo when it comes to attracting new customers.” This happens to be a Reuters piece, so if the image of a satellite television provider even having a mojo, let alone losing it, makes your fillings ache, blame does not rest entirely with the NYT, but still. <br /> <br />Maverick is a word we’re all used to hearing more than we'd ever though possible or advisable, and we will until McCain, aka Senator “I-hate-to-talk-about-my-wartime-experiences” McMaverick, leaves the national stage. But mojo? When did “mojo” enter the national conversation? The NYT archive lists about twenty uses of mojo in its pages in just the last week. And what are they using it to mean? Not what Muddy Waters meant, I’d hazard.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-13060728061242118852008-07-14T10:06:00.000-07:002008-12-10T15:10:17.735-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShlp07VKBhbAwX51GAByyizqChi01mjjjP7fR6vif239akAcV5M9Wi-b5KSGG42JbG3eTdVFvebDsLFQbqGI6Zz1_yH9ZGzKLPeesokAwHukii1wc-M4FCuCBeAJiN1wjdXI/s1600-h/an+era+2.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShlp07VKBhbAwX51GAByyizqChi01mjjjP7fR6vif239akAcV5M9Wi-b5KSGG42JbG3eTdVFvebDsLFQbqGI6Zz1_yH9ZGzKLPeesokAwHukii1wc-M4FCuCBeAJiN1wjdXI/s320/an+era+2.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222917396552529794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;"> END OF...<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <span style="font-size:85%;"> Alternate side of the street parking regulations went back into effect in Joy Buzzer's Brooklyn neighborhood today, three months after the regs were suspended to facilitate the posting of new signs throughout the nabe. The event has been reported endlessly, including a lengthy piece in today's NYT. The great fear here was that outlanders would park their cars more or less permanently on our streets, while we locals would wander the streets in our cars like so many exhaust-spewing Flying Dutchmen -- crusing Dutchman, actually -- searching endlessly and fruitlessly for parking spots. The situation never got that bad, but we area residents are certainly glad to see the end of what we are sure were hundreds, possibly thousands, of vehicular squatters from Bensonhurst, Dyker Heights and Nebraska. Happy motoring and good riddance. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><br /></span>Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-6605800039101198082007-06-27T13:09:00.000-07:002007-06-27T13:14:37.755-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">MY BIRTHDAY SUIT</span> <br /><br /> Part One: Shock and Awe<br /> <br /> For my recent Very Important Birthday, my spouse gave me a bespoke suit. She could not, of course, present me with an actual, corporeal suit; it doesn’t exist yet. A bespoke suit doesn’t come into existence until there have been discussions, negotiations and several fittings with your tailor. The gift is really a promise of a suit, a suit made for me, only me, in accordance with my measurements and my preferences, no matter how quirky either may be.<br /><br />Bespoke clothing has long been a means of expressing individuality as well as, or sometimes instead of, good taste. As per his wish, Richard Burton was buried in a red suit which I assume was made for him, given the general dearth of men’s ready-to-wear red suits. Theater critic George Jean Nathan’s jackets buttoned from right to left, which must have greatly bemused those who noticed. When the blues musician Sonny Boy Williamson toured England in the sixties, he had a Savile Row tailor make him a two-tone suit – shades of grey in a harlequin quadrant. On him, it looked good. Like a trip to Burger King, the bespoke experience is a chance to have it your way.<br /><br />Accordingly, the promise of a bespoke suit means that, if you’ve never thought about what you’d like in a suit, it’s time to get serious about the issues. Do you prefer a high gorge or a low one? Two or three button front, or are you thinking double-breasted? (It’s just my opinion, but unless you’re slim, don’t) How deep should trouser cuffs be? (Before you shout out “1¼ to 1½inches,” let me tell you that a friend of mine wears trousers with cuffs less than an inch wide. He had to cajole and hector his tailor to make such narrow cuffs, but they look swell, especially after they’ve been pointed out to you.). A visit to a custom tailor, in other word, requires a certain amount of preparation, especially if you’ve never contemplated these things before.<br /><br />I’ve been contemplating these things for decades, because a bespoke suit has long been tops on my list of things to acquire, visit and/or eat before I die. My plan was to get one when my ship finally comes in.<br /><br />My ship has not finally come in. At least I hope not, for that would mean my ship is a dinghy beached in a hidden cove. I mean, there is no singular triumph to cheer, no windfall to justify a celebratory expenditure or buffer its impact. But what the hell.<br /> <br />I’ve decided that the gift itself is something like that ship. In fact, it’s better. It symbolizes my wife’s generosity as well as our mutual determination to seize the day – the suit, actually – instead of waiting around for some metaphorical vessel which will probably never materialize. In other words, my suit has finally come in and, as my son might say, I am down with that, totally.<br /><br />I’m ready, too. Here is a chance to draw upon my decades of rumination about fabric, lapels, desired number and depth of vents, if any, and other vital concerns that have been on my mind since the tenth grade, when a classmate showed me the functioning button-holes on his sports jacket, a hand-me-down from his natty dad. I was hooked. I ingested every word of Mr. Wolfe’s seminal essay <span style="font-style: italic;">The Secret Vice</span>, about custom-made menswear and the men who live for it. A friend and I – the fellow with the narrow cuffs, actually – once had wide ties made to order for ourselves because we couldn't find any in the shops; this was a year or two before the Peacock Revolution swept the land and big “kipper ties” were popular for about ten minutes. I still have the tie, my only truly custom garment. It’s navy blue with white polka dots and about 3.5 inches wide, only a little bit wider than normal these days, which goes to show that in matters of fashion, as well as in matters of life and death, Paulie Walnuts' observation after learning of Johnny Sack's death – words variously quoted online as “Ride the painted pony, let the spinning wheel turn,” “Ride the painted pony, let the spinnin’ wheel glide,” “Ride a painted pony, let the spinning wheel turn,” and “Ride the painted pony, let the spinner wheel fly” – obtains.<br /><br />This clothes consciousness didn’t just appear out of nowhere, of course. In high school, I wore a tie and jacket five days a week and believed that adult life would, in all probability, involve a similar dress code. As things turned out, I work at home for the most part, and to say that I have little need for a fine suit understates the reality on the ground. Except for walking the dog and the occasional errand, I could probably get by without pants.<br /><br />But if my personal style these days lies somewhere between comfortably casual and downright slovenly, my dreams are dapper as ever. I can’t wait to get started. I’m thinking of a light grey with perhaps a hint of a sheen, but subtle, nothing flashy.<br /><br />All I’ve got to do is visit the tailor my wife selected and we can get started. An appointment is required, and somehow I haven’t gotten around to making one, even though I’ve been really eager to do so for every single minute of the three months that have passed since my Very Important Birthday.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33494537.post-84910870015964020972007-05-01T10:29:00.000-07:002007-05-01T16:30:52.641-07:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Wrong Side</span> <br /> <br /> Sartre said Hell is other people, but to a New Yorker, Hell is forever trying to explain alternate side of the street parking to someone from Columbus, Ohio. Even in this mortal sphere, my crystalline and succinct understanding of this archetypally New Yorkish body of law occasionally clouds. <br /> <br /> On Thursday mornings, the north side of my block must be clear of cars from 8 to 11; on Fridays, cars must clear the south side during the same hours. For those three-hour periods, cars are permitted to double-park across the street. Well, they’re not exactly permitted, but our innately gracious and kind traffic cops have been winking at the practice for years. <br /> <br /> Last Thursday, I waited until 10:55 a.m. instead of 10:50 to move my car, double-parked on the Friday side, back to the Thursday side, where it would not require moving for a whole week – unless, of course, I wanted to actually drive somewhere, which is almost never a smart thing to do unless you’re going out of town. At 10:50 (or 10:51 or 52, depending on how far up or down my car is), there are plenty of Thursday spots to choose from. But on this morning, that five minute window of time was enough for the Thursday side to fill up entirely. I had to move on in search of a parking place good for a week. No worries, though. If you’re early enough, you can always find something pretty close to home.<br /> <br /> In the arrogance that comes from seeing lots of free curb space, I didn’t notice that none of the numerous open spaces was long enough to accommodate my car – which isn’t particularly big, so don’t get the wrong idea. Meanwhile, the streets were filling up. I made two increasingly desperate circuits of the surrounding blocks and found nothing that would free me from the awful fate of having to move the car again on Friday. Finally, at the top of the block two over from mine, I found a spot big enough for me and quickly pulled in, spending a minute or two extra to make sure I was close enough to the curb – in New York, you can never be too rich, too thin or too close to the curb.<br /> <br /> Relieved, I locked that car and headed home. A block and a half on, I began wondering about the side I’d parked on: Thursday or Friday, Friday or Thursday? I was over a block away from the car anyway, so what difference did it make? I could check again tonight when I walked the dog. <br /> <br /> That’s when I knew I’d parked on the Friday side, the if-you’re-parked- there-at 8:01 a.m.-you’ve-got-a-parking-ticket side. For the first time in my memory, as least so far as I can remember, alternate-side regulations had confused me. <br /> <br /> I grow old, I grow old, but I swear it’ll never happen again. That’s for out-of-towners.Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01874635710481260310noreply@blogger.com0