Brief Reviews In a Brief Month
Malone Dies by Samuel Beckett:
Spoiler: Malone Dies. But slowly, oh, so slowly.
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The Birthday of the World, stories by Ursula K. Le Guin:
Great short stories by the thinking man’s sci-fi writer. Le Guin is concerned with gender constructs and how they inform societal structure. This book covers pretty much every, single alternate possibility from the system we currently have – some are much better; others are far worse; all are fascinating.
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The Funeral Party by Ludmila Ulitskaya:
Spoiler: Someone dies. Much more quickly than Malone did, however, and surrounded and survived by many loving, squabbling mistresses and friends, all Russian. This book made me want to get up before dawn to visit Fulton Fish Market, but it’s doubtful that I ever really will.
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Slippage, stories by Harlan Ellison:
Definitely read “The Man Who Rowed Christopher Columbus Ashore” and “Mefisto In Onyx.” Maybe read “Jane Doe #112,” “She’s a Young Thing and Cannot Leave Her Mother,” and “Midnight In the Sunken Cathedral.” Probably skip the rest.
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We Tell Ourselves Stories In Order to Live: Collected Nonfiction by Joan Didion:
Joan Didion is The Essayist, period. Each and every one of her sentences is so sharp and on point that if you tripped and fell on this tome, you’d bleed out instantly.
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Stories by Anton Chekhov:
Chekhov convincingly speaks in a thousand different voices (although they are all Russian – it’s a really big country).
11
I have not been blogging much lately, and so, in the style of the blog 11 Points, here are 11 things that I have been spending my time on lately, and enjoying immensely. All highly recommended:
1. Gail Collins. The New York Times was long overdue for a female columnist who wasn’t Maureen Dowd, and Gail Collins is more than the Times deserves: tart, smart, funny and perceptive, her takes on the issues of the day are both informative and cathartic. I just checked out one of her books, America’s Women: 400 Years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates, and Heroines, but have only read the first chapter so far. I’ll let you know how it is. Also, in addition to her columns, Collins’s conversations with David Brooks are a treat. I have to confess, in the past, I have occasionally liked David Brooks, but he’s been heinous lately, and as his tenure at the Times goes on, he contradicts himself ever more blatantly. I dearly love a good journo fight, and Matt Taibbi (an occasional guilty pleasure for me, I’ll admit – his reportage may be spotty, but sometimes you just need a good, unapologetic rant) has lately been picking Brooks’s columns up in his teeth and shaking them back and forth until their necks snap.
2. The public library. I like to write in my books, dogear them, and read them in the shower, so for years, I insisted on buying books and keeping them in piles along my baseboards. But I don’t make that kind of money these days, and have finally learned to make good use of the public library. Yes, the inability to write in the books is a serious handicap, but otherwise, I am a total library convert. There’s a small branch near my house, and I can order whatever I want through the system to be delivered there, and they notify me by email when my holds are ready. Best of all, you can renew your books on the computer, and as long as nobody puts a hold on them, you can renew them indefinitely (I’ve renewed one 12 times already). And all for not one red cent (not counting city taxes). Beat that, Kindle.
3. Susan Schorn’s McSweeney’s column. I go back and forth on McSweeney’s, and particularly on their columnists. Some are good, some are boring, many have long outlived their original gimmick, good for only a post or two, but weirdly extended. But one of their new columns, Susan Schorn’s meditations on martial arts, self-defense, anger, weakness, and related topics, is fantastic – and not just because I’m into karate lately. I agree with Schorn about everything, and wish she lived next door to me, so that I could bother her all the time (and all of her other humor pieces are great, too). Speaking of karate:
4. Shotokan karate. I have been training at a local dojo since August (I’m currently a yellow belt), and I am obsessed. Fantastic exercise, and a wonderful outlet for pent-up aggression, karate is sport, art form, self-defense training and a study in focus and discipline, all in one. I try to make three classes a week, and, while I still couldn’t beat up a four-year-old, my kiai has deepened from Chihuahua to Rottweiler.
5. Jezebel and The Awl. I am putting these together, because my enjoyment of them is similar. For some reason, when Jezebel debuted, I immediately decided that I didn’t care for it. I can’t remember what about it offended me, because I’ve really been enjoying it lately. In addition to the progressive and feminist news alerts, there are hearty round-ups of celebrity gossip. And while I am not interested enough in celebrity garbage to actually read up on it, I must admit, do I want to know when Brad and Angie finally break it off, or when Lindsay Lohan ODs in a club bathroom, or when somebody has a major weight reversal? Yes! Yes, okay? I do want to know that! I admit it! But I don’t need to know the deets – I just want a headline and a photo, and that’s what Jezebel delivers. Now, The Awl, helmed by former Gawker editor, Choire Sicha (aka the only person who ever wrote for Gawker that I actually liked), is a hilarious, well-written chronicle of all things that would particularly interest…well, Brooklyn dwelling, underemployed pseudo-writers like moi. Plus, it is one of those lovely, rare blogs in which the commenters expand on (and often outshine) the posts. Kinder than Gawker and sharper than The Gothamist, The Awl fits just right. If I could only read one blog, this would probably be it.
6. Amanda Palmer. The former Dresdan Doll has an awesome solo album. Plus, she’s engaged to Neil Gaiman, and showed up at The Golden Globes with her boobs and her pit hair out. She’s a fucking badass.
7. Small, well-done, original blogs. Tiring of sprawling, massive, constantly updating blogs, I have lately been discovering small, creative, focused sites that do one thing and do it well. Edith Zimmerman writes hilarious very short stories. Tom Oatmeal (who I found through EZ) makes milk come out my nose. And firmuhment is continually brilliant and original – scanned documents that inspire essays, short stories, and humor. I’m not sure if firmuhment is a single author deal or a team effort, but every post has obviously had a lot of work put into it, and I appreciate that.
8. Firefox’s new skins. I spent the lion’s share of my day staring at my browser, so anything that makes it more visually appealing makes me happy. Firefox’s new skins are a small adjustment that, surprisingly, makes a big difference. Currently, I’m enjoying Spring II. Goes well with my igoogle theme.
9. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I resisted getting into this back in high school when everyone was super into it, and haven’t gotten into it since, because I didn’t want to consume seven seasons of TV. But my coworker has them all on DVD. Uncle, okay? I’m through six seasons already, and ready to register as an official member of the Joss Whedon fanbase. In addition to the overall awesomeness of the series, I enjoy identifying basic karate moves in the fight choreography.
10. My new phone. After three shameful years of hitchhiking on my parents’ family plan, I finally ponied up and got my own phone plan, and a phone with a full keyboard and a camera. And man, it makes a huge difference! I no longer wince at the sound of a text message arriving: it doesn’t take me a year to peck out a response anymore, and my phone looks cool and is really fun to use. And yesterday, when my brunch coffee came in a giant bowl with no handle, I was able to document it quickly and easily, no forethought required.
11. My rabbit, Thomasina. Thomasina is so freaking adorable!! And I love having a pet! This was a good move. She’s my little pal, and she does hilarious things and entertains me, and she’s cuddly and fun. Right now, for example, I am trying to write, and she is collapsing her little grass hut on top of her head, and making eyes at the rabbit she thinks lives in my closet mirror! OMG, she’s a gas. I won’t work at all today.
I’ve Been Watching: The Ballad of Jack and Rose
Jack (Daniel Day-Lewis) lives on an island with his daughter, Rose (Camilla Belle). Jack is the last holdout of a 60s commune, and of course, developers are steadily encroaching. But meanwhile, Jack and Rose live an idyllic eco-friendly existence, and are as tight as two entirely isolated people can be. However, Rose is becoming a young woman, and Jack is slowly dying of a heart condition. Enter Kathleen (Catherine Keener), Jack’s girlfriend, who moves in with her two sons, fat, gay, friendly Rodney (Ryan McDonald) and taciturn, grimy Lothario, Thaddius (Paul Dano). Rose resents Kathleen’s presence, and more, her relationship with Jack, and she rebels, determined to chase Kathleen and her brood off the island and regain her father’s sole attention and (quasi-incestuous) love.
Written and directed by Rebecca Miller, the movie is well-acted and beautifully shot, but the plot turns feel forced and the drama often overwrought. Kathleen and her sons are all caricatures, put in solely because they are needed for catalysts. Their thinness is all the more apparent when contrasted with the fascinating characters of Jack and Rose. The biggest problem with The Ballad of Jack and Rose, however, is its out-of-nowhere turning point and abrupt retreat from a realistic and interesting conclusion. Miller seems to shy away from the conflict she’s constructed, and the ending of the film more or less negates everything that came before it.
I’ve Been Reading: Castle
Eric Loesch returns to the small New York town in which he was born, and purchases an isolated plot of land. He is unsure why he is returning to his hometown, which has long since suffered the declines of shuttered industry, and we, the readers, are unsure what Eric is running from. We know he is exhausted and extremely antisocial, but we don’t know what events have transpired in his recent past. Initially, as Eric purchases his land and goes about re-roofing the house, solving electrical problems, and otherwise fitting up the place, J. Robert Lennon’s Castle seems likely to be a Walden-esque meditation on dropping out and returning to nature.
But then, a mystery is introduced. In looking over his purchasing documents, Eric realizes that there is about an acre in the middle of his property that he does not own, and the owner’s name is blacked out on all of the documents. It now seems that Castle might be a mystery story. But then, it isn’t, quite. Ultimately, it becomes something altogether different, both sharply focused and bewilderingly surreal. The slender novel reveals itself slowly, and the story defies genre. Lennon explores behavior modification; psychological manipulation; control and respect for authority; constructed masculinity; and these concepts’ intersection with recent events in America’s wars, and he gets there through some masterful storytelling. Further explanation would ruin the adventure; just read this one. Lennon’s scope is ambitious, and while in the end, he might not really have the chops to make it thoroughly convincing, still, the book is truly original, and hard to put down.
Introducing Thomasina
This past weekend, I apparently suffered some sort of psychotic break, and adopted an 8-month-old Brittania Petite/mix rabbit from a shelter, and brought her home on the subway, and now I have this rabbit living in my room. Her name is Thomasina, and her Hebrew name is She’era (courtesy of her Godmother, Robin). Here are just a few things I did not previously know about rabbits:
- They require a gigantic cage environment, which can comfortably accomodate a litter box, food and water bowls, a hidey-hole-type box and a variety of toys and towels and crumpled newspapers. (Ideally, they should have shelves and ramps, as well, but we all make sacrifices to live in NYC, and Thomasina must do her part.)
- They pretty much litter-box train themselves. Their litter box must be changed daily, and filled with fresh timothy hay, which hay forms the mainstay of their daily diet (I know, totally gross).
- They also need a large fresh salad every day, and a small amount of pellets.
- It’s better for them to be relatively cool than to be hot.
- They don’t like to be picked up at all. It really, really makes them uncomfortable. When you do pick them up, there’s a special way to do it.
- They can die in a matter of hours from intestinal gas. The way to prevent this is to catch it in time, stick a thermomenter up their butts to determine if their temperature has dropped, and then give them baby gas meds. Then they’ll be fine. I dread the day I have to deal with this.
- You have to clip their toenails. I dread the day I have to deal with this.
- They can be put into a trance by being tipped gently onto their backs.
- They need carpeted surfaces to run and jump on; hard surfaces can give them sore hocks.
- If they’re happy, they do ‘binkys’ all over the house, which are giant, leaping, backflip-type moves. If they do not do these, you are a terrible rabbit-parent, and your rabbit is miserable.
- They get really furious when you leave them, and super excited and lovey when you return, like a dog (or at least, mine does).
- Their life span is 10 years. I still don’t really believe this, nor can I envision myself being in possession of this rabbit for a full-on decade.
Here is what I knew about rabbits:
- They are very cute.
- You have to cover all of your electrical cords before you let them run around the house.
So, it’s been a real learning opportunity. Since bringing Thomasina home, I have mostly occupied myself by worrying insanely about her wellbeing. When I am not hovering over her, making sure she is eating and breathing and pooping and not gnawing on an electrical wire, I am at work or karate worrying about what she’s doing, and whether or not I have somehow brought about her early demise through neglect or stupidity, and googling various behaviors to make sure I am not missing anything crucial (she had a mild attack of the hiccups today, and damn near gave me a heart attack). Hopefully, this worrying will abate somewhat as I get used to owning her, and I can resume my previous life, which consisted largely of worrying about my own health, and searching rare conditions on Web MD.
Anyway, I’ve built her what I think is a really kick-ass cage/playpen out of Neat Idea Cubes, and have put some cheap mats down on the floor and everything. I let her out in my room when I am home. As soon as I cover all our cords and obtain an area rug I can roll out in the living room, I’m going to let her explore the rest of the house. My main problem right now is that I don’t know how much to feed her, and I’m afraid I’m starving her. According to the people who walked me through her adoption, she should be having one or two large, leafy, mixed salads a day, in addition to her hay and pellets, but everything I can find on the Internets says that rabbits should have two cups of greens per six pounds body weight. Thomasina is two pounds max. So, last night I gave her a tiny salad, and I had a big salad, and we sat on the floor and watched Buffy on my laptop, with some magazines laid over the cord.
So, I guess I’m this crazy person now. Also? I may be a little biased? But I’m pretty sure that Thomasina is the coolest rabbit that ever lived, and is vastly superior to all cats and even a fair amount of dogs.
I’ve Been Watching: Fantastic Mr. Fox
Oh, Wes Anderson, I just can’t quit you. No matter how many good reasons you give me to go.
I loved Fantastic Mr. Fox as a kid, although I can’t remember much of it now – other than the geese, chickens, cider and apples. So, I’m not sure how faithful Anderson’s film adaptation is, but I think Roald Dahl would be happy with it. It’s not surprising that Anderson’s typical mood and style translate well into stop motion animation, and his usual company (headed by guest big names Clooney and Streep) does a great job channeling their understated emotional nuances through a variety of cartoon burrowing animals.
The main thrust of the plot involves Mr. Fox, Fox family patriarch and former chicken thief, attempting to pull one last heist on the three local farming tycoons, without getting his family killed in the process. But the heart of the plot involves Mr. Fox’s short, scruffy, maladjusted teenage son, Ash, whose desperate desire to be admired by his dashing father is compounded by the summertime visit of his athletic, attractive, even-tempered cousin, Kristofferson. The shifting relationship between the Fox cousins is the sort of slow-simmering, internal conflict that Anderson excels at dramatizing; and as his characters are foxes this time, and thus must demonstrate their species’ behavioral tendencies, he has a whole fresh cache of details to play with. The jerky stop motion, along with the mostly orange-and-yellow color scheme, twangy score, and periodic tableaux of burrowing, dancing animals give the movie a vintage feel that is classic Anderson.
I’ve Been Watching: Avatar
Let me spare you the $14 and nearly three hours of your life you might otherwise waste on this piece of shit movie, and recap it here for your convenience:
Lights up on Average G.I. Joe, in a sleeping drawer from the Fifth Element set, installed in the giant room from The Matrix.
Joe: Damn, I shore have gotten myself in one hell of a mess. Let me explain to ya how it happened. I ain’t no fancy, brainy scientist like my big brother was. I’m just your average military man, but I’ve got a healthy heaping of horse sense, and I’ve got heart. You might even call me…a Real American. (Except that I’m disabled. That’s the groundbreaking, original thing about me as a hero.)
Joe arrives at base camp. Cut to Ripley, arguing with overly muscled, severely bleached, shouty military guy with face scars, so you know he’s a For Serious Dude.
FSD: Now, look Ripley, as I’m always telling you, I’m a military guy. My perspective is very simple – these native peoples want us dead. There’s no negotiating with them; the only way to win is to wipe them off the face of this new planet. Now, you, you’re a scientist. Your motivation is to study and understand their culture. But we both work for that coked-up guy in the suit and glasses over there with the putting strip in his office (srsly), and he’s a businessman. His motivation is to mine the very valuable unobtanium (srsly) that is underneath the native people’s Home Tree (srsly), and he doesn’t much care how he gets it, but he doesn’t want any bad press. Now, you’re conflicted, because you depend on his money to fund your research, and you and I have a lot of conflict because we disagree over how reasonable the native population is.
Ripley: A three hour long movie, and they couldn’t find time to unfold the exposition in any more graceful way than that stilted, ridiculous monologue?
FSD: I know, right? Can you believe they actually paid someone to write this shit, yet Elizabeth Urello can’t get published to save her life?
Businessman: Actually, this screenplay was written by the guy who wrote the text for the original Legend of Kyrandia.
FSD: Wow, that’s quite the reference.
Ripley: God, I look good for my age.
Joe (via his avatar) heads into the jungle.
Joe: Wow. This jungle is really cool-looking.
Ripley: Is it?
Joe: Well, now that I’ve been here a minute, it’s a little garish.
Ripley: And flat, don’t you think? Like our avatars?
Joe: Yeah. It all looks very Vegas.
Ripley: I always think it looks like it was designed by a 14-year-old gamer who just got a blacklight.
Joe: Oh, totally! And likes to go to underage clubs where all the girls wear body glitter.
Ripley: HA!
Joe becomes separated from the group, and meets the chief’s daughter.
Pocahontas: You think you own whatever land you land on. But I know every rock and tree and flower has a life, has a purpose, has a name.
Joe: My favorite thing about you noble savages is how your women wear no tops.
Pocahontas: Plus, we’re really spiritual and quiet and in touch with nature.
Joe: I want to sleep with you. As soon as I’ve earned the right by proving myself to your people.
Pocahontas: Let me introduce you to our ways. Our nature spirit forces tell me that you’re a God sent here to deliver us.
Joe: Well, I am a strapping white guy.
Pocahontas: Good thing, or we’d never be able to defend ourselves against your superior military.
Joe: This is all so tired, even I can barely stay interested.
Pocahontas: Right? And yet, have you read the reviews?
Joe: I know! The reviewers are all on crack.
Joe quickly learns all of the native people’s skills and surpasses them in every way. They worship him as a savior. He saves the native peoples (albeit with many casualties), bangs the chief’s daughter.
Joe: And now, I will live among you always.
Pocahontas: Although you’ve overseen the destruction of my home, and the slaughter of my family and friends, I will now lick your feet in gratitude.
Joe: Damn straight, my little blue trophy.
Pocahontas: Speaking of, wasn’t this whole storyline terribly racist?
Joe: Well, it would have been, except for the computer animation. That makes it fresh.
Pocahontas: I see. I have to admit, even though I resisted slightly at the outset, I always knew things would turn out like this.
Joe: Well, there’s absolutely nothing in this movie that a moron in a coma couldn’t see coming a mile away.
Pocahontas: Center Stage looks positively groundbreaking by comparison.
Joe: Oh, I forgot about that! You really deserve a good project.
Pocahontas: Srsly.
I’ve Been Watching: The Savages
In Tara Jenkins’ film, Laura Linney plays the woman I always feared I would become if I continued to be an aspiring actor/playwright past the point of it being cute. Because of this, I personally found this comedy to be more of a horror film, but regardless, I enjoyed it.
Wendy Savage is a 30-something aspiring playwright who lives in Manhattan, pretends to work in a cube all day, and occassionally has bad sex with an unattractive married man. Her brother, Jon (Philip Seymour Hoffman), is a lit professor in a small New England town, continually working on an unreadable book on Bertold Brecht. When their father, Lenny’s (Philip Bosco) long-term girlfriend dies and her children throw him out of her house, Wendy and Jon must place Lenny (who has dementia) in a facility. Lenny was abusive, and the Savage children have been estranged from him for decades, but family responsibility trumps all, and they dutifully situate him in a nursing home near Jon’s school, and visit him frequently, trying to make him as comfortable as possible in his new surroundings.
The world in The Savages feels depressingly, hilariously recognizable. Its people are floundering and bored, and their triumphs are small. Wendy continually attempts to make lemonade out of life’s lemons. She decorates her father’s institutional-looking nursing home room with Urban Outfitters throw pillows and lampshades, which details are then ignored by everyone but her; she manages to win a writers’ grant…from FEMA; she doesn’t much like her boyfriend, but she loves his dog. But by the end of the film, her obstinate attempts at reinterpreting her life as something worth living have begun to work out for her, and The Savages ends on as uplifting a note as possible, while sustaining its credibility.
The movie is touching without sentiment, familiar but original, and very funny without being forced. Jenkins underscores her well-drawn characters and simple plot with subtle visual metaphors, and her screenplay is economical – there are no superfluous scenes or bits here, nothing added just for the fun of it. The Savages is so well-written, in fact, that it would have made a fine novella, but happily, it is an even better film.
I’ve Been Reading: The Northern Clemency
Philip Hensher’s The Northern Clemency is a giant chunk of a book, about two middle-class families in Sheffield, England, and their lives over several decades, from the 1970s on. As the book opens, Malcolm Glover and his wife, Katherine, are having marital troubles. Malcolm suspects Katherine of having an affair, and he goes missing the same day Alice and Bernie Sellers move in across the street. The two families, awkwardly forced into immediate intimacy by Katherine’s emotional meltdown that first day, become intertwined, mainly through the friendships of their children: Daniel Glover, dashing ladies’ man, Jane Glover, shy and bookish, and Tim Glover, the weirdly intense youngest boy unloved even by his mother; and, across the street, awkward, wooden Francis and carefree, oversexed Sandra. The novel follows the fates of each of these people, as well as a half-dozen of their friends, lovers and acquaintances, and demonstrates how the events of that first day would have repercussions for all of them in the years to come. It also traces the changing fortunes of Sheffield, a coal-mining town in decline, whose children would soon flee to London and Australia.
The book has little in the way of driving plot (it’s more of a survey), but the characters and the settings are finely drawn, and I thought the book was a real page-turner, but then, I really dig this sort of boring, British, drawing-room-type stuff. Of course, any novel or film that makes a point of showing ordinary lives unfolding against a backdrop of historical events is sure to receive positive critical attention, and The Northern Clemency is no exception. Beautifully written and thoroughly absorbing, the book deserves its accolades. However, it continually teases at a plot-twist and resolution that never arrives, so if you’re not into this sort of thing, you’ll probably feel cheated by the time you wind up at page 600.
A Word On Resolutions
New Year’s has come and gone, and with it, the usual talk about the efficacy of resolutions. It’s commonly held that after a certain point, attempting to change yourself is futile – you are who you are, and you should just accept it and move on. But I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Behavior becomes habitual, and a habit is a really, really tough thing to break, but it is possible. I have been making the same set of resolutions since I was 19 years old or so – not just on New Year’s Eve, but at various times throughout every year, and writing them down, and promptly forgetting them. They are basically an outline of the sort of person I’d prefer to be, which is worlds away from the person I am, and while nothing seems to change year to year, I have realized in the past year or two that, amazingly, I have gradually implemented some of my own suggestions. Maybe this has more to do with the calming effects of getting a little older (or with my divorce from the theater world, which can’t but have a positive effect on any personality), but I think that constantly reminding myself to do some of these things has made them stick…more or less.
Granted, I still revert back to my default personality whenever I am tired or hungry or jealous or feel backed into a corner. But generally, I do, for example, talk less and listen more now than I did at 20, and this was an incredibly difficult thing to change (although I still spew forth whenever I’m around someone who makes me nervous, or when I suspect I’ve just said something stupid and need to distract my listener by throwing verbal chum in every other direction). On the other hand, I’ve continually resolved to go out more and be vibrant and social, and that never sticks more than a weekend or so. But then, on the third hand, I have successfully learned to stop obsessing and ruminating. I think. Have I?
Whatever. My point is that it is possible to change yourself, at least temporarily, if all circumstances are favorably aligned and you’re well-fed and rested and around people who don’t annoy you too much. People quit smoking and drinking and sometimes even harder stuff, so really, there’s surely no behavioral habit so ingrained that it’s impossible to prod yourself out of it, I think. Except maybe overeating. And having poor posture. And wetting the bed.
MS 12/10/09: Photoshopping
Extremely obese black dude with a small mop of dreadlocks: ‘Naw, man, but he’s not real! He’s just a cardboard cutout!’
Dweeby-looking white guy: ‘Yeeeeah, I know. He’s uh…what’s it called? Photoshopped.’
Black guy: ‘Exactly! Ain’t nobody really look like that.’
MS 12/9/09: Ikea
My friends and I went to the Red Hook Ikea yesterday. Going on a weekday is definitely the way to do it – the place was pretty much empty. Except…there were all these preteen kids running around everywhere eating $1 yogurt and carping at each other. Later, while eating our meatballs and lingonberry sauce, my friends and I saw all of the kids piling into a schoolbus in the parking lot.
Why would a junior high school take a mid-day field trip to Ikea? Just because the food’s cheap and there’s plenty of floor space?
MS 12/8/09: Quest Diagnostics
At the waiting room of Quest Diagnostics testing center, Greenpoint, Brooklyn, an incredibly frazzled-looking blond Polish woman in green scrubs came out to check the sign-in list (no employee had entered the waiting room for 15 full minutes). A very young woman went up to her.
‘I just scratched my name out,’ said the young woman. ‘I will come back another day.’
‘Ok,’ said the worker, studying the clipboard.
‘See?’ said the young woman. ‘Right there. I scratched it out. Because I have to pick up my kid – at 10:30, the schools let out.’
‘Ok,’ said the worker.
‘So,’ said the young woman. ‘I suppose I will come back tomorrow. Because how many are waiting?’
The worker made a vague motion over her shoulder at the waiting room, where sat a very old man with a cane, a Mom-ish looking woman reading a Polish magazine, me, and a mentally-challenged man (who had clearly shit himself) playing with a pop-bead toy and accompanied by an older lady with garish rouge circles painted on her cheeks.
‘So…four?’ asked the young woman.
‘Yeah, four, yeah,’ said the worker. The very old man approached.
‘When will you call me?’ he asked.
‘Well, I will have to come back tomorrow, then,’ said the young woman. ‘What are your hours?’
‘Who are you?’ said the worker.
‘Douglas,’ said the old man, pointing. ‘When will you call?’
‘Now,’ said the worker. ‘Room one.’
‘Room what? Where?’
‘Your hours tomorrow?’
‘Uh…eight to five. Room one, room one. Right there, sir. Elizabeth?’
I went up with my form.
‘Okay,’ said the young woman, regretfully. ‘I guess I will just come back tomorrow then.’
‘I can’t do this test,’ said the worker, looking at my form. ‘For a job, yes? I can’t do. Will speak to my friend to do. Please take a seat.’
I sat down again. The young woman left in a huff, and the worker guided the old man to Room One.
Presently, another harried Polish woman came out, this one in white scrubs. She looked at the clipboard and called to the back:
‘Which one had the form?’
‘What?’ called the first worker from another room.
‘The form? Which is the one with the form?’
Everyone in the waiting room stood up halfway.
‘Me!’ I said, coming up with my form.
She took it, and scrutinized me.
‘Are you ready to urinate now?’ she asked, loudly.
‘I sure am!’ I announced.
MS 12/7/09: Quarters
As I was picking up my laundry, an older Polish man came in and put a five dollar bill on the counter next to me. The Asian woman ringing up my laundry looked at it.
‘Five dollar quarters?’ she said.
‘Uh, four and four quarters,’ said the man.
‘No–’
‘For the meter! The meter!’
‘No! We are not a bank!’
A long, uncomfortable staredown ensued.
‘Forget it,’ said the woman.
Another long, uncomfortable staredown, during which I paid for my laundry.
‘You go down there!’ said the woman, pointing vaguely East. ‘To the Western Union!’
‘Oh, okay!’ said the old dude, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Thank you! Have a nice evening!’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Excuse me,’ he said grandly, bowing himself out the door. ‘Good evening!’
MS 12/4/09: Number?
As I went down the stairs into the train tunnel, an old French guy coming up muttered something critical at me, which unfortunately, I didn’t catch. After passing me, he hollered at a model-gorgeous girl in a sleek black outfit, who was smoking at the top of the steps:
‘Get rid of that cigarette! That is ugly! Ugly!‘
Later, outside a bar in Astoria:
Woman: ‘Well, then, uh, I don’t know, let me get your number?’
Guy: ‘My phone number?!’
