Another Story and Another Column: or, shameless self-promotion

In case ANYONE reading this hasn't gotten an e-mail, tweet, FB post, or MySpace bulletin yet... I have two publications to show for one week, NOT on Whack! Magazine! Check it!

McSweeney's Internet Tendency: The Conflicted Existence of a Female Porn Writer: Column Two: Desensitization

And:

The Whiskey Dregs: Short Stories: The Old Goat Man

Now that that's over with, I've been considering the merit or not of the upcoming Where the Wild Things Are Movie. I don't know how to feel about it. On the one hand, it looks like a great film so far, and I have the utmost respect for Spike Jonze, as a director, as well as for the fact that Maurice Sendak's wishes are being realized by him directing this movie. He apparently once said that the only way he'd agree to his baby being turned into a movie would be if it were to be directed by Jonze.

So that's all well and good.

But still. It irks me on a number of levels. I'm always hesitant to see a book turned into a movie, particularly if it's one I grew up with. But this one bothers me more than others. For one thing, the book is so beloved by so many, not for the merits of its movie-length plot, but for its sparseness. It's a book with so little background and so little development of the plot that one must bring one's own imagination and experience to it in order to make the story whole. And one's own story must be a good one to match the incredible possibilities and the astounding artwork. And that brings the best of the imagination of everyone who reads it.

Of course I appreciate Spike Jonze's vision, and I think his version of the story will probably be one that will be eminently artistic and enjoyable. But. It's still HIS. From the time this movie comes out, every kid who's seen the movie (there will be MANY) will bring with him Spike Jonze's idea of the story, the characters, the background, the sounds, the sights we don't get to see in the pages. And that bothers me with this particular book because it has always been the opposite of a fleshed-out, pre-imagined story. And now it will be just like Harry Potter or Twilight or The Lord of the Rings. Well, ok, not JUST like them, but one person's vision of it will come to dominate the entire story, book, movie, idea. And I don't like that.

Furthermore, I feel like this movie was cooked up by some producers who looked at my very specific part of my very specific generation. They looked at the books we love, the music we love, the directors we love, and the type of movies we love, and then they said, "You know what would be perfect? Turning 'Where the Wild Things Are' into a live-action style movie and getting Spike Jonze to direct, the singer from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs to come up with the soundtrack, and the Arcade Fire to let us use their anthem about growing up in the trailer. The twenty-somethings will line up around the block to see it, and they'll bring their kids! We can't lose! It's a money-making machine!"

I might be totally wrong about that. It's just as likely (and I've obviously done no research about it) that someone really really loved the book and really really loved Spike Jonze and The Arcade Fire and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and thought that together they would make a beautiful piece of art. And you know, they probably will. But I get this feeling that I'm being led by the nose because being who I am, at this point in my life, at this moment in time (post-college fugue, frustrated creative visions, yearning for childhood feelings, wanting to be swept away to a better world without a recession or even money), I HAVE to love it. I don't like being led by the nose, even if the people at the other end of the leash are creative geniuses.

I dunno. I guess it just seems contrived to me, and too much awesome in one place.

I'll probably end up seeing it and loving it, but hating myself for it the whole time. Grumble.

What do you guys think? Support it? Love it? Hate it? Meh?

In other news: my coworker Maribeth saw John Turturro on the street today. I am way jealous. This lady has never even SEEN The Big Lebowski! Not fair.

But I DID see this after leaving work: a mid-twenties white guy sitting in traffic in a very nice Chrysler convertible, with the top down in 50 degree weather, smoking a cigar, and listening to "With Or Without You" at full volume. Way to go, guy, for blasting the music you REALLY love.

The great mosquito conspiracy: or, I am really itchy...

The mosquitos are in league with somebody, folks. Some force of evil out there has caught on to my prophesying and has hired a force of mosquitos to hunt me down and persecute me mercilessly for trying to warn the masses about their plans to kill off humanity. It might be the slime molds; in their multi-species proclivities and doom-mongering depravity, they would seem to be rather well disposed toward going into cahoots with a group of blood-sucking, still-water-loving jerk-offs like mosquitos. But then again, it could be the robots, because they know it'd seem unlikely for them to team up with any organic life form and therefore I might not catch on to their little scheme. Or, god help us, maybe it's the slime-mold robot! God, I hate that guy.

Anyway, the point is, I'm wise to their game, whoever it is that's overseeing it. I'm no dummy. I know the difference between the acceptable number of bites I can expect to get in an evening of sitting outdoors in the city. For me, the number is higher than it is for many, since I've always been a mosquito magnet, but it hovers somewhere around 3. 10, however, is unacceptable, abnormal, and extremely f-ing uncomfortable. Especially given that on the night in question, during which said 10 bites appeared, I was with a group of at least 6 people at all times, none of whom have told me they are suffering from a single bite. Furthermore, for much of the time in question, I was seated in a beer garden the size of a football field, surrounded by hundreds of other people. There is no way that my 10 bites are proportionate.

And, yes, I know it's been a wet summer, leaving more than the typical amount of standing water sitting around in the city and leading to a lot more mosquitos than there usually are in the urban colossus. I know this. But even my usual high level of attractiveness to vampiric bugs, multiplied by the above-average number of the little monsters hanging about, still does not equal the overwhelming number and intensity of bites I'm trying to cope with in this hot weather. It's just not mathematically correct (yes I've done the math, but it's way too complicated to post up here. Most brains just can't handle it.). These bloodthirsty cretins are after me, specifically. I'm certain of it.

I know it sounds paranoid. I was thinking maybe it was. So last night I put my theory to the test and took a chance on walking outside in a friend's backyard to see his tomato plants. It was around 11:00, and we stood out in the garden for less than 2 minutes. When I went back inside, I told myself that if I didn't have any mosquito bites, I'd let the mosquito-robot/slime mold theory go. If the bastards aren't really out to get me, I'd be unlikely to get a bite in such a small amount of time.

Well. When I walked back in and looked down at my knee, there was a mother-f-ing mosquito ON IT, sucking out my lifeblood. 2 minutes, people. 2 minutes of outdoor activity (during which I was constantly swatting the air, running my hands over my limbs, etc, in pre-emptive fear of blood-letting), and I was already a banquet.

That's it, you bastards. I'm on to your game. You will NOT drain me to the point of hospitalization, thereby shutting down my warnings about your plans for world domination and doom! I will not leave my readers in the lurch of your evil scheming! Anopheles quadrimaculatus, you, your gang of buddies, and your robot/slime mold employers will not bring me down!

I bought some bug spray, dammit. And I'm using it every time I step out the door. For all your scheming, mosquitos, you're pretty easy to repel with storebought spray. So take that and shove it up your proboscus! I'm armed and ready. Bring it.


(Post Script: I figured all this out last night and am now carrying my bug spray in my purse, displayed prominently near the top to warn the suckers that I'm not afraid to fight back. Well, whoever it is that hired the mosquitos to track me is apparently on top of things. This morning, at the 59th and Lex stop, I got literally attacked by a COCKROACH. They're bringing in the big guns. I was walking toward the staircase to the street, and a cockroach the size of my big toe suddenly came running at me--me, specifically, out of the entire crowd of people!--from across the stairwell. Well, screw you guys. I can carry Raid around, too, if you want.)

The underutilization of English majors: or, how I plan to make a living...

Well. I have not been posting much lately, and I do apologize. I've been going through an intense period of thinking about my writing as per its career aspects, and where I'd like to consciously take it from here. It's been quite overwhelming and stressful, and I've been pretty busy to boot.
But I think something is afoot. Last week I purchased a new computer, which will arrive in a day or two and hopefully make my life as a would-be writer easier (the one I have now will no longer work unless hooked up in just-such-a-way to one single socket in my apartment and no other, nor will it connect to the internet, no matter what type of connection I try to establish; its Graphics driver has stopped working, and I think it basically just wants to die, so I'm letting it), I'm embarking on several new projects (co-producing, casting, story editing, and generally helping a friend with his awesome webisode, taking night classes in Illustration and publishing starting in a few weeks, and working with a musician on an album), and... oh my god, you guys... I just accepted a year-long, once-a-month column at McSweeney's Internet Tendency!!! AAAAHHHH!! I'm a writer!! Holy crap!!!

!!!!Exclamation points!!!!


...ok. Now that that's over with. There's a reason I'm exposing you all to my own self-congratulatory festival. Namely that, with all these projects and classes going on, I'm looking at my schedule and thinking: "This is nuts. How am I ever going to make time for all this without going crazy?" And, of course, since I'm at work, my brain is giving me sneaky answers like: "You're probably going to have to quit your full-time gig at the gallery." Which, my other, less sneaky, brain answers with: "That's ludicrous. How could we ever pay our bills?"

To which my third, more rational yet also creative and fun brain, answers: "Work the English major angle."

Ok, I know some of you are probably snorting with laughter at that. "What English major angle?" you're giggling. "That's no angle at all!"

And it would seem you'd be right.

But think about this. When's the last time you walked down the street, drove down the road, or even sat down at a restaurant without seeing a grievous error in spelling, grammar, or punctuation? I might see these errors more often than others because I live in a predominantly Spanish-speaking neighborhood, but I'm sure many of you share my annoyance when you're handed a menu at a decent dining establishment and find an option like "Chicken Brest" or "Sasoned Rice." It's infuriating to me because I'm trained to notice things like that, and I would imagine it's mildly annoying to other people; but more importantly, it hurts a business when the people who write the signage and menus are made to look like fools to their clientele, or to anyone else who can read. Websites are even worse; I don't really even want to talk about the horrific crimes committed against the English language on the Web. But, suffice it to say...

That's where I think English majors should come in. Like many other people these days, English majors are hurting for cash and jobs, but unlike many other demographics, for English majors this is almost always the case. We're the slightly more academic Art Historians of the modern world; we have lots of practical knowledge but rarely find good ways in which to use it. Why not mobilize against the forces of stupidity? Why not take arms against a sea of idiocy, and by opposing, end it?

I think, if in my frantic writing/singing/running about this fall, I should lose my full-time job, I would march directly from the gallery over to Staples and have 250 business cards with my name and number and the words "English Major for Hire. Will proofread, edit, and correct any and all signage, menus, and online text."

I'd then go around to every business I could find and drop off my card. Simple. You pay me a very small amount, I fix your language problems. My fees would be modest. $5 for all your signs. $10 for signs and over-the-counter menus. $20 for paper menus. Maybe $.05 a word or something websites, maybe less (haven't done the math to see if that makes sense). It would benefit everyone: the business and its employees would look smarter, which would draw more clients, and the general public would be exposed to less bad English, thereby reinforcing good English.

Soon enough, we'd have a movement. English majors being paid for what they're good at anyway, making some money to pay the bills, and feeling good about their decision in college. More people knowing how to spell and use punctuation. It'd be a happier, better world.

Now, I know I'm too busy right now to start this revolution, but who knows what might happen in the next few months? If I do get kicked out of this high-falutin' gallery anytime soon, I'll start it myself. And if not: English majors, I urge you to unite! Help your less-educated neighbors learn how to spell! Become a positive force in your society! I emplore you! Please, for the sake of the Chicken Brest with Sasoned Rice.

Some Dudes are A-Holes: Exhibit C

The other day I went to the grocery store on my way home and then proceeded to walk down Melrose avenue, weighed down by my purse and several bags, hot and sticky and feeling full of malicious contempt for everything around me, when I walked by two guys in the middle of a conversation on the corner near my house.

They were young and, one would think, had stuff to do or at least to talk about. But when I walkd by, one of them stopped talking in the middle of the conversation and made a kissy face at me, complete with lip-smacking noises.

Dumbfounded by this audacious display of uncouthe stupidity, I ignored him and kept walking. He paused for a moment, then turned to follow me with his face, and started up again with the kissy face and noises. This continued until I had crossed the street and turned the corner.

I just... I can't imagine in what world that seemed like a good idea to him. Did he think I would throw myself into his arms shouting "I love it when men make ridiculous faces at me and demean me publicly!"? Or was he just trying to be an A-hole? Cause he sure succeeded in that endeavor. But the issue I have with this idea is that as far as I can tell, the point of making fun of or otherwise demeaning another person is to make oneself look comparatively better. But this guy was standing on a street corner puffing up his face like a fish and making stupid noises. I fail to see how that gives him the upper hand, or, alternately, sex appeal.

I'm befuddled.

But also, dude was being an A-hole.

Some Dudes are A-Holes: exhibit B

So on Tuesday I was sitting here, as I am now, at the desk at the gallery, no doubt working on something VERY important. (That's how I roll. I look like I'm just surfing the internet but I'm actually almost always working on one project or another of my own. And they're important. Top secret stuff. You wouldn't understand.) It was mid-afternoon, the time of day when my mood invariably takes a sudden turn. Sometimes it's into the realm of indiscriminate randiness, when I can't stop thinking about sex for an hour at a time. Sometimes it's laziness, which in turn inspires drool-inducing, mind-numbing, ripping-my-own-hair out boredom so profound I can't even come up with any ideas for things to do. And sometimes, particularly this week when I've had a bunch of deadlines and projects to work on and lots of things on the agenda, it's hysterical, headache-causing stress, which in its turn morphs into annoyance and very near explosive bouts of temper every time the phone rings.

On Tuesday, it was stress/anger. I was trying to keep myself under control to avoid head-explody (nobody wants brains on the artwork, after all), when a middle aged gentleman in khakis, a very very bright orange polo shirt, and black suspenders walked in. The outfit in itself was warning of a really annoyingly unselfconscious geek of a human being, but to add insult to injury he was carrying a gigantic camera in a case strapped around his neck.

He walked right up to me, blinking behind his thick glasses, and said, in a nasal and wheezing voice, "Excuse me, I hate to bother you," --PS, when people come into a retail establishment and say this to the person at the desk, they ALWAYS, very definitely DO mean to bother you-- "but could I ask if I have permission to take some flash photographs of the beautiful sculptures downstairs in the entryway to the building? The flash isn't very bright, but there is a flash on it, but I just thought those sculptures were so beautiful, and..."

"Yes," I cut him off. "Those sculptures are open to public view and as such they can be photographed. People take pictures of them all the time."

"Oh, well that's good," he started up again. "I always like to get permission before I take photographs of any artwork because sometimes, if you don't and you start to take pictures, then the man at the desk in the lobby will come and tap you and say, 'You can't do that.' So I always come in to ask permission first, and I was just out to lunch nearby and saw a way to get from 56th to 57th near your building so I walked through and there were these beautiful sculptures and I thought, 'I should ask if I have permission to photograph these wonderful artworks'..."

He just kind of kept going like that for a while. He talked as if everything were one long sentence, jam-packed with fuckery. While he was going through his laundry list of inane prattle, the phone ran several times, a few other people walked by and spoke to me, and he just kept going. I went back to whatever I'd been doing on my computer, even, and he kept right on. Eventually he did seem to pick up on the fact that I wasn't listening, and then leaned in: "May I have permission to take a look around this lovely gallery, then, before I leave?"

I'm sure I shot him a "please go fuck yourself and/or die" look, but I said as politely as possible, "Yes, go ahead. We don't permit any photographs in the gallery, however."

"Oh, no, of course not, I wouldn't want to..." he started talking as he walked away. For all I know, or care, he could have been talking to himself the entire time he spent walking around the gallery.

He was admiring the lovely artworks for a good 20 minutes before meandering back my way, at which point he IMMEDIATELY started up with the boring chatter. I was astounded. This happens from time to time at my job, it's nothing new that somebody decided I was to be their next victim in a long line of serial attacks of drivel, but I'm always amazed by them. I mean, are these people really just lonely and possessed of a smidgen of acumen which tells them that above all other people in the universe, gallery receptionists are helpless to get away from them? Or do they do this to everyone? I get images of them sitting in busy restaurants, telling the waitstaff in great detail about the spices they uses on their own tilapia at home, while food goes cold at the order-up window and other customers wait impatiently for service.

This time, dude was telling me about how he comes from a family of artists; his sister is an artist and his aunts are artists; his daughters are artists; except the one daughter who started out in a program for studio art in college but then switched to English; but she produced some really great pieces that friends are constantly praising; he thinks someday she'll go back to art; because there is no reason to do just one thing; we can choose what we do...

In the middle of his slowly unspooling yarn of crap, the phone rang several times in a row and I was able to stay on the phone just long enough for him to lose interest. He thanked me and then walked away. I heard him press the button for the elevator, and in a spirit of profound thankfulness, I finished my calls and hung up.

Well, he HEARD me hang up. And to him that meant I was fair game for a lecture on mental handicapped-ness, from someone afflicted by it. And that bastard turned right around, just as the elevator was opening for him, and walked BACK to my desk!! He immediately launched into a story about how his English major daughter had made a painting when she was 2 and 1/2 and they'd framed it and given it to his parents, and those parents invited some art experts over for dinner, and the art experts thought that the painting was very good, and it was just so funny because it had been done by a 2 and 1/2 year old. And he just always really resonds viscerally to art even though he's no expert; he just sees things and likes them; and he's kind of an artist too; he's from an artistic family, you know; he takes photographs of art, flash photographs, with not a very bright flash, and his relatives have all said that his photographs are very good...

Seriously, this went on for a good ten minutes more. My co-workers kept walking past the desk and just leaving me out to dry for this ass-hattery. He wouldn't go away. Let me tell you, when I'm in the depths of a stressed-and-angry bout, this kind of situation makes me virtually shake with suppressed rage. I was ready to knock his block off but had to keep myself in check because I was, after all, at work.

I suppose he either lost interest, or I just began so blatantly ignoring him that he got bored, and wandered off, out into the July heat, to wear the nerves of more helpless gallery workers down to their very thinnest and last wire.

Dude was an A-hole.

Leave the Freaks Alone: or, ridiculous political correctness overkill

I'm not sure how NBC New York decided that this was a story worth reporting on, but check out the one about the "5-Legged Puppy Rescued from Coney Island Freak Show."

Looks like a puppy mill operator decided to sell his five-legged chihuaha-terrier mix, Precious. Some "kind Southerner" outbid the Coney Island freak show operator and is being lauded as a hero for saving the admittedly adorable puppy from a life of freakdom.

It seems the fifth leg hasn't hindered Precious from many of life's joys, but since it hangs between her back legs and trips her, it has made walking difficult. According to the breeder, the dog "wasn't a freak, she was just ... born with five legs." Nevertheless, he was set to sell her to a freak show until Allyson Siegel from North Carolina outbid the Coney Island operator and basically stole the puppy out from under him. And, just to be sure she won't end up as a freak in any way, she's renamed her Lilly and is going to have her fifth leg removed in two weeks.

Now, call me crazy, but it seems to me this Siegel character is a little overly concerned about the 'freak' label. I mean, sure, I can't imagine the freak show on Coney Island is a fabulous home for 'different' animals (I've never been), and as humans we shy away from the idea of being seen as different or freakish, and all that. But who's to say the dog isn't totally fine with being a freak? Who's to say that Siegel should have its extra leg removed? Can't the dog be different from other dogs, or will that make it less valued as a pet? Or is she just projecting her own insecurities and issues onto Precious/Lilly?

Maybe this "kind Southerner" is one of those people who was a hopeless dork in high school. A social outcast with glasses and headgear who got called names and made fun of mercilessly by the other "normal" kids at the "education mill." Growing up she felt like a freak for not making the cheerleading squad or getting many dates. But as soon as she graduated with a degree in business and got a good job at some nice company, she went and had herself surgically and chemically altered so that now she's tall, blonde, and sporting DD cups. And now she goes to high school reunions with incredibly handsome men, her giant boobs hanging out of her taylored dress, to show those bitches from school who the real losers are. And she's a total douche.

And now she's forcng her brand of 'normal' down the throat of this poor, helpless, mostly functional and totally adorable puppy?? That ain't right. I say let the dog go to the freak show and learn to be ok with its extra leg, then make the decision for itself. Don't take your securities for you!

Summer morning rain in the big city...

This morning it rained. Really hard, for a long time, without letting up. I don't really mind rain, but it does a number on the city and the people in it, who all seem to freak out and assume the end is nigh, even though it rains here pretty frequently. Also, it does make my commute to and from work much more diffficult than usual for several reasons:

1) Everyone in this city with an umbrella seems to think that he or she is Hot Stuff and can weild his or her umbrella like a deadly weapon. Apparently umbrellas exempt them from any moral culpability for poking people in the eye with their weapon's spokes, running into people because they 'didn't see them,' dumping huge amounts of water onto others, and any number of other inconceivably rude things that would NOT be ok to do if umbrellas weren't present.

2) There are about 500 of these ubmrella-toting bastards on every block.

3) It's very easy to become one of these bastards.

4) When I suppress the urge to be a bastard, I tend to get very grumpy.

5) No matter what the umbrella situation, I always end up wet from the knee down at least, because cars go by and splash me, umbrellas, bags, and awnings drip on me, and the sidewalks are never, EVER, even, leading to unexpected puddles.

So, when I got to the train this morning, I was already cheesed because my sandals were filled with water, my hems were soaked, and I had been poked and annoyed by at least 2,500 umbrellas already. But I was willing to try out a good mood. I was giving it the old college try.

And then, at 125th Street, this lady got into my car, which was not particularly crowded. I was standing in the little nook and leaning on the door, minding my business and listening to my iPod. This lady, I must admit, looked a little old and a little white to be getting on the train at 125th and Lex, and I assumed at first that she was just frazzled by the rain and all the people and the fact that she wasn't in her comfortable upper west side 3 bedroom rent controlled apartment. So I tried to give her a little slack when she walked directly up to me, then pivoted to stand facing away with her back literally less than 6 inches from me.

I let it slide for a few seconds, thinking maybe she'd assumed the car was way more crowded than it was and overcompensated, but would soon move out of my personal space when she realized her mistake. But she didn't. She just stood there, her hair practically in my mouth, not seeming to notice that the other people in the car all had a good foot of personal bubble surrounding them while I had virtually none. Even though I could have breathed on the back of her weird neck.

As the train continued hurtling through the tunnels, this woman swayed back and forth with its motion, her upper body in general getting closer and closer to me. I was getting extremely uncomfortable, and she seemed oblivious to my discomfort--to my presence entirely. I cleared my throat loudly. Nothing. I moved around, shuffling and moving my arms sufficiently to be certain she could see me in her peripheral vision. No response. I allowed my dripping umbrella, which was dangling from my hand and thus will tell you how close she was to me, to touch the back of her leg so that it dripped down into her pink galosh. No movement whatsoever. When we went around a turn and her hair literally touched my face as she swayed backward, I let a "Jesus CHRIST!" slip from my mouth. I didn't yell it, but I sure said it loud enough for her to hear me and move away. But she didn't. Just stood right there, being in my way, being way too close to me, and being oblivious or willfully ignorant.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I don't like my personal space being invaded by strangers, much less in situations where it's completely unecessary. I wanted to take my drippy umbrella and smack her, hard, in the back of the knees with it. Or scream "Get away from me you creepy bitch!" But I kept it under control. Almost. I noticed a lot of people nearby watching me intently and realized I was giving her the Level 10 Death Look. Let me tell you - this is not a look you ever want to see coming from me. It means doom is coming for YOU.

Anyway, she moved away from me - far away - at the next stop, so maybe she got the vibes of pure unadulterated hatred I was sending her way from ~4 inches behind her head.

I made it to work on time and with little more in the way of incidents, still kind of wet and annoyed, but figuring I had a pretty good "Rainy-Day-Weirdo" story to share with the coworkers.

...until two of those coworkers got of the elevator and said they'd just been in there with a woman who was wearing a WWII style, two-oxygen filters, full-on gas mask.

Ah well, you can't win them all.

On being a "writer"...

I think it's one of the perpetual conditions of most creative people--and I like to think particularly the geniuses because that would confer a lot of glory to me--to be deeply insecure, anxious, passionately devoted to self-loathing, moody, and terrible at self-promotion. Writers in particular, or at least the ones I know, generally think that they suck, that everything they do is sub-par, and that making their point through their flawed but genuine contributions to the existant body of writing is infinitely preferable to communicating with the outside world directly by, say, talking. I assume all these things to be true because they pretty much encapsulate the way I see things from the perspective of a writer. Sure I can be outgoing and fun-loving and confident with my friends or at a bar, but when it comes to showing a professional face as a writer, I either tend to laugh the idea off ("I'm not a writer! I WANT to be a writer! But I'm not a writer! It'll never happen!") or cringe, blush, and back away, mumbling some self-deprecating nonsense about how my stuff isn't very good. I hate trying to present myself as someone who knows anything about writing, much less the topics I write about, and even less about what the hell it is I'm trying to do by writing anything about them in the first place.

And yet, as a ball of nerves with the confidence of a particularly timid country mouse, I have to try to get myself published. In order to do this, and depending on the type of writing being put out, I have to learn to overcome my fears of exposure to do any number or combination of the following things, according to all the forums, columns, advice giving articles, and writer's salons I 've been frequenting lately for advice on the writing and publishing processes: develop a strong platform for each project so that you know exactly what it is you want to say and to whom; find the audience you want and turn that audience into a dedicated readership willing to buy and read anything you publish; develop professional liasons with as many people as humanly possible in the publishing, publicity, and reviewing worlds; write a 40-60 page book proposal with a complete table of contents, sample chapters, and a detailed description of how you will market your project; pitch an idea to and editor by throwing the names of all your publications and people willing to read, review, and blurb your project; attend every publishing event possible to make friends and network with other publishing people; stalk the agent and publicist you want on Twitter, Facebook, Google, and in the pages of every book he/she has ever worked on so that when you pitch it you will know exactly what that agent is looking to represent; find and pay your own publicist; clean up any and all internet presence you already have so that no evidence of your past usage of bad grammar exists anywhere online; somehow get yourself on the roster for public speaking events to add to your CV; develop a CV; demonstrate self confidence to everyone you meet so they'll think you're hip and want to read your work.

There are more. Lots more. Nowhere in there does it say "Write a kickass piece of something or other and let people read it."

Nowhere in there is there a mention of anyone helping you or giving you any credit as a creative individual who might not be The Next Big Thing.

I know the current American reading climate has moved away from fiction and poetry, the genres in which writers are mostly allowed to be eccentric weirdos who wear flannel and live in log cabins in the woods and pee themselves while speaking in public, but as one of those eccentrics... That list up there... I'm absolutely terrified.

I mean it's daunting enough to just write something that bares your very private layers of inner soul and then let somebody see it and judge it and make their assumptions about you based on it. It's soul-freezingly scary to try to shout out your creative vision in the face of the fast-moving, fast-forgetting, writhing, blogging, tweeting mass of the digital age of too-much-information and little appreciation for anything. The quivering hulk of monster that is Your Competition, the reek of its hungry but very picky breath, is enough to turn away even the most courageous.

But the idea of trying to market myself to a world that has no reason to care unless I personally make it care? Or of trying to scrounge up the money to pay a publicist that can actually get me a speaking engagement somewhere other than soapbox in Union Square? Or of "building an online following" somehow by being... I don't know... magically endowed with minion-creation capacities? How the hell am I, this little teeny self-mutilating blob of anxiety and too-high personal expectations, supposed to accomplish the sky-scraper-high list of accomplishments before even finishing my book?

I might as well just pee myself now, in front of all of you, turn off the computer, curl into a ball, and settle into my receptionist-for-a-living lifestyle. Or go back to school to become a nurse.

Shit.

Moon explody and other ridiculous bullshit...

I'm having trouble figuring out how to start this post. My Ridiculous Bullshit-O-Meter is way up past the top of its Bullshit Measuring capacities, and I'm just so... I dunno, disappointed? Apalled? Amused? Terrified?

Here's the thing. This - NASA'S Mission to Bomb the Moon - is a real headline. As are all the others like it. As is the actual mission. I haven't exhaustively researched the entire plan beyond reading a bunch of articles online, so I suppose there's a chance (please, God, please) that this is a hoax, but I just can't bring myself to really look too far into this. It's just too ridiculous.

Here's the idea: NASA is hoping to put people on the moon again in 2018, to establish a base there as a launch pad for explorations to Mars and so on and so forth. Which I suppose is a commendable enough goal, albeit one that there are major political and practical reasons to hesitate before supporting. Before they send some of our red white and blue brothers up there, though, they want to check out what kinds of possible natural resources they might have available to them when they get there. They're hoping, mainly, to find some water, which they think might possibly be hidden at the north and/or south poles of the moon, left over from icy comets and such that have left giant craters there in the cold and the dark.

So, in order to determine if there's water at or near the surface, NASA is going to send up a spacecraft to orbit the moon for a few months - for the purposes of look for an exact target for the Centaur rocket that they will then fire. At the moon. At the speed of a bullet.

They're expecting the resultant cloud of debris sent up from the impact to fan out for considerable miles from the moon's surface - they're thinking it will be visible from earth - and then they're going to send in a "shepherding spacecraft [which] will follow close behind, taking pictures and analysing the ejected debris as it looks for evidence of water," very much in the style of, oh, I don't know, a Star Wars video game where you have to fly through a field of debris in your little spaceship.

Yes. That's the plan. We're going to bomb. The MOON. In the name of science! And nationalism! And showing those Communists who's got the best bombs and space program! ...oh, wait, we're NOT in the Cold War anymore? The Russians aren't communists? Well, shit... Um... I guess we can show the North Koreans, right? We're still not into them, right? Sure, yeah, let's do it! Show that Kim Jong Sick guy what's what, huh? Show him the moon BELONGS to US! Cause we said so!

I'll give you guys three guesses as to who signed this one into action. That's right, kiddies, it was none other than our favorite former president, George W. "You Had Me At Bomb" Bush. I'm not sure if he was in on the actual planning of the bombing portion of this operation, but my gut instincts tell me he was at least gung-ho into it when he heard explosions were involved.

While I do have to admit that the idea of looking up into the night sky and seeing a bomb going off on the moon is pretty damn cool, I also just... I can't... It's so ridiculous! I mean, can you really honestly tell me that this is the most efficient and responsible way to go about this? Can someone from NASA please explain to me, in a calm and steady voice and not while panting with little-boy enthusiasm over sending a bomb into the cosmos, why this blatant show of overzealous Hollywood weapons-mongering was chosen as the best course of action to determine whether there might be water on the moon? It's going to take a lot of convincing for me to believe that this wasn't just a bunch of adolescent males playing video games late at night after drinking way too much Mountain Dew and going, "Dude, you know what would be so cool to do?"

Sure, I can see how not actually having to set anything down on the moon's surface in a responsible, non-pyrotechnic way could be more difficult and expensive than using a bomb, but really, think about this. Here's NASA, a group of scientists with a huge budget who like sending large white phallic things into space using huge amounts of energy and taxpayer money, basically showing off as much as possible, making plans to colonize the moon. Not that that's not a worthy goal, especially if we're looking to branch out to study other planets, and especially if someday we might have to use other planets to survive. But, here's the hangup I have:

I saw a man, an American man, on the train yesterday, with a copy of a newspaper article on a sign board about how he'd been burned by acid. I couldn't understand what he was saying, because he basically had no lips or tongue left. His ears were little misshapen buds on either side of his head, his nose was a little nubbin holding up his sunglasses, which I'm assuming were there to hide the disfigurement of his eyes. His hands and arms were horribly mangled. He was asking everyone to spare some change to help him pay for his medical expenses and reconstructive surgery (I think, anyway - again, I couldn't hear him well, but he might have just been begging for change because I'm sure he can't get much of a job looking like he does).

Let me be perfectly clear: this man was burned so horribly by acid that he has to wear sunglasses to keep from upsetting people. He has no LIPS. He is an American. He cannot afford to pay his medical bills and apparently nobody will HELP him except for strangers on the subway.

And yet, we can bomb the moon to look for water. Now do you see why I just can't get behind this?

Snowflakes and geriatric gunmen...

I'm having a strangely racially charged week.

Yesterday, I was walking up Melrose Avenue near my house, on my way home from meeting with an artist and grabbing a few things at the grocery store in the midst of a desperate pee-haze. (You know, the total inability to concentrate on anything because of how badly you have to pee? It had been four hours and I was getting desperate. I went on a mad dash through that grocery store, man.) I was barreling down the sidewalk at quite a clip, focused on getting to my place and putting down my bags, when a nicely dressed older black man walked by: "Good evening, beautiful," he said, then continued on his way. No big deal. I smiled a little at him and kept walking. I've gotten used to the occasional comment, particularly when on Melrose. The tone of most of them is of appreciation, a little lewdness, but whatever. I mean, I look at people on the street, and I usually wouldn't have audacity to say anything to someone I found attractive, but that's really on me for being shy. I don't mind people telling me I look good, so long as they're not mean, overtly rude, or in some way hindering my progress down the sidewalk.

About a block later, two guys came out of a store and took up positions on the sidewalk directly in front of me, walking verrrry slowly. They were both black, really tall, dressed nicely, and obviously in no hurry to get anywhere. I, on the other hand, was desperate to get to my bathroom, so I moved up on the outside to scurry around them. As I drew up next to them, we walked three abreast for a few seconds, and I noticed the guy closer to me do a very conspicuous up-and-down once over of me. Again, this didn't bother me, since he wasn't trying to touch me or stop me in pursuit of relief.

But then, as I started to pull away in front, he said very quietly: "Hey, snowflake." It was an almost monotone, loud enough for me to hear it but not a shout for others to hear. I couldn't quite tell if it was a flat-out racial slur meant to hurt my feelings, or some sort of hurtful come-on. Either way, I had no idea what to do.

What I wanted to do was stop, wheel around, and lay on some really biting insult, or at least a witty reprimand for his behavior. Something that just fed his own medicine back to him. But, as is my wont, I couldn't come up with anything because my brain had shut down when he'd said it in the first place. I could have turned and blatantly glared at him, but then other people might have thought I was the bigot.

So I settled for just ignoring him and walking away a little faster. The comment itself didn't bother me too terribly much - not everybody can be nice all the time, and it really has nothing to do with me. But the more I thought about it, the more amazed I became. That's the first time anyone has ever said something overtly and meanly racist to me, or at least the first time it's been overt enough that I noticed it. I can be pretty spacey on the street sometimes.

But, really, I've been in the minority demographically in every neighborhood I've lived in since high school. That's eight years, baby. During college I was living in the Bronx, then I went to the reservation for a year, and then even in Chicago I was living in the gayest neighborhood in the city. Then I came back to New York, where I've lived in Harlem and now the Bronx again. And sure, I've gotten some weird looks and some rude stares, and sure I've heard people giggle as I walk by, and sure I get comments on my ass from time to time, but I've never had someone just come out and tell me before that they didn't like me for my white skin. It's weird. I don't know if that's a testament to people generally being nice, or how far we still have to go. I mean, imagine the uproar if a black person were walking down the street in TriBeCa and somebody made a snide remark about his/her race. Can you imagine? It'd be big news. Nobody can do that these days. We've come pretty far on that front.

But hey, I'm just whitey. Little pale chick in the Bronx. Fair game, right? After all, I'm encroaching on someone else's territory. This isn't my hood. Right? On the one hand I can understand frustration and even people vaguely disliking me on the street. I really AM a representative of my race, and as such, can be perceived as a harbinger of higher rent, property values skyrocketing, Starbucks on the corner where Cookie's used to be. People who can't afford to pay out the nose for the posh new SoBro neighborhood could, in ten years, be forced to move even further from the city because of people just like me. So, sure, if someone sees me coming and feels a little ping of mistrust, there's nothing I can do about that.

But, wait! What the hell? What's going on here, is this some weird urban mutation of Stockholm Syndrome? Bullshit! Nobody in this country should ever be made to feel unwelcome ANYWHERE. I mean, with the possible exception of certain situations, like a woman in a cocktail dress and stilettos wandering into a subway homeless camp. But in public? On the street? In daylight? I don't give a shit if you think you know something about me because of how I look, it doesn't give you the right to bother me with your prejudice. That's not right. I have as much of a right to live in the South Bronx as anybody else and fuck you for having an issue with where I make my home. I LIKE my neighborhood. I shop there, I'm probably going to join the co-op there. I contribute. I pay taxes.

I should've just as quietly and calmly intoned: "Darkie" at that guy. A term so antiquated and ridiculous it would either have turned on a lightbulb over his head about how equally ridiculous it was for him to be mean to me, or thrown him into a rage and turned me into a victim of a hate crime. But at least I'd have felt better.

As it is, I'm just left scratching my head about how to feel.

So I come to work today and see the front page of the Wall Street Journal: "White Supremacist Suspected in Shooting at Holocaust Museum." And a picture of an 88-year-old man being led away in cuffs for fatally shooting a security officer at the Holocaust Museum in DC. Come ON, people. This would be ludicrous, if someone hadn't been killed, and it's just heartbreakingly sad as it is. Can you imagine, in the goldest of your golden years, at 88 years of age, being so filled with hatred for other people just because they don't have the same heritage as you? Forget rent hikes, forget property values, forget paying taxes. Here's a man who, overcoming the many obstacles to so doing, has survived for nearly nine decades on this war-torn planet, who one would hope would be wearing slippers on his porch and enjoying a nice Scotch while his dog sleeps on his lap, has instead let himself fall so deeply into arbitrary malice that he's going to go out this way? This is why people calling each other names on the street is so bad.

It's not just an issue of someone being rude, it's an issue of teaching people to live their lives in love with the world and the people in it. The world might be a fucked up place in a whole lot of basic ways, but the last thing it needs is those of us living in the wealthiest, most bountiful and diverse place in the world to spend their days eyeing each other with suspicion and seething hatred. Life is way, way, way too short to spend it feeling bad about differences that only run skin deep, and even about differences that run deeper. So people look different, think differently. So what? Calm down, people. Take an afternoon off. Go to the park. Watch some squirrels playing. Look into the eyes of a carriage horse. Look into the eyes of someone on the street with love, compassion, and the assurance that the two of you are composed of the same stuff and are the results of the same millions of years of diligent evolution and the lucky winners of the prize of capitalizing upon the tiny, infinitessimal chance that you could both have been formed of non-living matter in order to now be standing there, facing each other, having survived so long and come so far. It's incredible, isn't it? It's amazing when you look out into the street, or into space, to realize the chances of you being where you are right now, next to the person beside you, no matter what he looks like or where he comes from. Just. Calm down.

On being bitchy

I've had a bit of an altercation with the people at ZipCar.
You see, over Turkey Day, I had rented this car to drive to Pennsylvania and back over the course of 27 hours. ZipCar is a car rental program that uses a fleet of cars, all parked in specific locations all over the city. You pick up the car you reserved for a specific trip, drive it, and return it on time, and you get low low low rates and free gas. It's pretty fantastic all around. As long as you honor the contract you sign when you become a member, it's all good.

Well, on that contract it says that before you get in the car to drive it, you must do a walk-around inspection of the car. If you find any damage, you must call the people at ZipCar to tell them about it so that you won't be billed for it if it wasn't your fault.

When I went to pick up my car the day before Thanksgiving, I was chomping at the bit to get out of the city ASAP. When my friend and I arrived at the parking garage where it was located, we found our vehicle parked in a dimly lit back corner, next a pole on one side and parked in by other cars all around it. I could clearly see the driver's side, but that was all. There didn't seem to be anything wrong it.

Now, according to the contract I signed, where I promised that I would do a complete inspection of the vehicle and call in any damages, I should have driven the car out to a well-lit place and immediately inspected it, then called in all damages. But, this being my first ZipCar experience and myself being so excited about driving, I just kept on going and assumed everything was fine. Big mistake.

Apparently there were some black paint scratches and a dent on the car after I brought it back on Thanksgiving. Thse damages MUST have been there when I picked the car up, since I didn't hit anything, and since I didn't even park the vehicle anywhere I couldn't see it for the entire time that I had it. Nobody hit it, it hit nobody, and nothing happened.

But last week, I got an e-mail from ZipCar saying that they were "investigating" damages to my car that appeared to have occurred while I had it. I e-mailed them back, explaining what had happened - and what had NOT happened. And that was all.

Over the weekend, during which I was in Pennsylvania dealing with a terrible tragedy, attending a funeral, and generally being out of touch with the rest of the world, I had two missed calls from ZipCar and no access to my e-mail. When I returned to new York on Monday I was so exhausted that I hardly remember getting to my apartment, where I slept for the rest of the day.

Yesterday morning, my first day back to work after my horrific weekend, I received an e-mail from Zipcar alerting me that, after an "investigation" that did not include actually speaking to me about what had happened, the Powers That Be decided I had been responsible for the damage. They tried to stick me with the maximum bill allowed on the ZipCar member contract: $500.

So I called the guy at ZipCar and explained to him that I hadn't been able to see the whole car when I picked it up, that I realized I could have given it a look later on, but that I had been so nervous and excited that I'd just taken off. I told him I was sorry for not having done so and called in all damages I saw, but that I had not been responsible for them and that I had two passengers who could back me up on that. I told him where I had gone and where I had parked the car and for how long.

He said that he could lower the amount that I owed since I seemed sincere and since it was my first experience with ZipCar, but that since I had not called in the damages, and since they had been reported after my time with the car, he could draw no other conclusion than that I had caused them. He lowered my bill to $250, I thanked him, and that was the end of it.

Well, after this had all gone down, I got word from the two friends who had been in the car with me on my trip. They both told me that I should have bitched and moaned and made a huge stink about the whole thing. That I should have told the ZipCar guy that it was a breach of their end of the contract for not having the car placed in a well-lit, open area where I could do a walk-around inspection. That I should have denied responsibility for anything and demanded to talk to higher-ups until I got someone on the phone who would take all the charges off my account. That I should have been a bitch, rather than be held responsible.

I thought about it. I really did. After all, I know that I'm not responsible for those scratches or that dent. In all likelihood, the person who had the car directly before me banged it up and didn't report it, and that person is sitting back on his ass laughing right now about the poor sucker who got stuck with the bill. And that really sucks for me. I mean, since when should I have to pay $250 for something I didn't do?

But the truth is that I still cling to an antiquated belief in three things that might make me old-fashioned, but I don't care. Those things are: responsibility for one's actions, accountability for those same actions, and keeping one's word. It might be silly of me, since in this case it's costing me way more than I want to pay. But no matter how firmly I know and believe that I didnt mess up the car, I refuse to ignore the fact that I signed my name to a contract which bound me to do something I just didn't do. I knew at the time that I should have done it. I knew I had promised to do it. And I didn't. I threw caution to the wind and decided that I'd do what I damn well pleased, consequences be damned.

Well, the consequences came knocking, and it turns out that while I might have the power to tell them to go to hell, they have a piece of paper with my name signed on it, which says that I'm responsible. And while I might have it within my grasp to scream and whine and caterwaul until those consequences go away - if I'm bitchy enough - I choose not to do that.

These days I know plenty of people who seem to get out of everything by being intractably rude to customer service people, who refuse to be held responsible for any expenses they have incurred or damages they have caused or problems they have initiated, just because they are able to make a big enough stink. I have been told over and over, and have witnessed the proof, that people who are willing to be total assholes can and do get what they want. And especially in a PC, customer-service focused, poor-me, I-could-sue-you-for-this-and-probably-win climate like the one we're in today in America, it's true. You can get into or out of just about anything you want if you're willing to overlook your own responsibilities in favor of being a rancid bitch.

But I'm not into the idea of suing some just because you can, or revoking promises you made just because it hurts to go through with them. Maybe this makes me stupider than noble, but I'm going to stick by it. And I'll freely admit that I'm a huge wimp when it comes to sticking up for myself. But I do know when I'm being walked on, and this time I wasn't. After all, I knew what I should have done. I signed something saying I'd do it. And I didn't. And now it's landed me in a big old hole. But, next time, I'll damn well do that inspection.

History lesson

This is courtesy of Mental_Floss, my favorite favorite favoritest website. The last two sentences sum it all up:

...The Grattan Massacre, a bloody clash between American Indians and U.S. troops that played out in 1854 in the Nebraska Territory, just east of what is now Laramie, Wyoming.

If you thought Mrs. O’Leary’s cow was bad news, consider what the cow that wandered away from a Mormon pioneer train on the Oregon Trail started. The rabble-rousing bovine clomped its way into a camp inhabited by the Lakota Indians, one of seven tribes that made up the Great Sioux Nation. Not being ones to turn down a free lunch, the Lakota promptly killed the presumably abandoned cow and ate it.

That might not seem like a big deal, but in the mid-1800s, few peace pipes were being passed between American Indians and new settlers. So, when the cattle owner realized the fate his cow had met, he immediately went to tattle his tale at the Territory’s nearest outpost of officialdom, Fort Laramie. In response to the incident, U.S. officials dispatched an eager young second lieutenant and recent West Point graduate named John L. Grattan to bring the cow thieves to justice.

What happened next underscores the downside of history’s insistence on naming events only after they happen. Had John L. Grattan known he was riding off to The Grattan Massacre, it seems likely he might have conducted himself more civilly with the Sioux. Instead, Grattan’s approach would later prompt a fellow Fort Laramie officer to comment, “There is no doubt that Lt. Grattan left this post with a desire to have a fight with the Indians, and that he had determined to take the man at all hazards.”
With nearly 30 men in tow, Grattan met with the Brule Lakota chief, Conquering Bear, and demanded the surrender of the guilty parties. By most accounts, Conquering Bear was open and reasonable during the negotiations, and it was Grattan’s behavior that escalated tensions. At some point, Conquering Bear stood up, and nervous U.S. soldiers—thinking the chief was making a move—opened fire, killing Bear and his brother. Warfare quickly broke out on both sides, and Grattan’s entire party perished.

When news of the event reached the U.S. War Department, officials sought swift revenge on the Sioux. A little more than a year after the Grattan Massacre, on September 3, 1855, General William S. Harney and roughly 600 soldiers caught up with the Lakota tribe. Harney ordered his men to open fire, and nearly 100 Lakota men, women, and children were shot dead in what became known as the Battle of Ash Hollow. (Apparently, 30 Army men being killed equals a massacre, while 100 Sioux being killed equals a battle. Ain’t history grand?)

Hairless Apes

Ok, now that the monkey story is over, I thought I could go back to writing about subjects more befitting of homo sapiens. Things like philosophy, art, music, etc. You know, intelligent topics of discussion and what not.

But then today, on a whim, I started doing some research into Proposition 8, which overturned a California Supreme Court ruling that upheld the rights of same sex couples to marry. Californians voted by a 52.2% majority on election day not to extend the legal rights of heterosexuals to homosexuals. They... decided... excuse me, I'm trying to wrap my brain around this one... to outlaw gay marriage... after the supreme court of their state... said that to do so would be unconstitutional. And they voted that... the supreme court... was wrong? ...Because... their churches... told them to.
California. The state where the gay rights movement started. Where people began to realize that homosexual people are, well, people.

I'm confused.

So I've been researching what happened. And I'm just disgusted. It's the kind of thing that I guess shouldn't surprise me anymore. People being hateful toward each other for no discernable reason is part of our heritage. But even if we are just big hairless apes, and even if we've spent most of our history as a species being terrible to one another, we are still hairless. We have evolved beyond other apes. We do have bigger brains. And we have been using them for a while now. How is it that we continue to be so stupid? What is it in our genetic makeup that plunges us from the heights of philosophy and artistic achievement into the darkness of disgustingly backwards primordial goo? Why do we do this?

I realize this isn't the most well-reasoned or objective look at the issue, but there aren't enough people out there reading this just yet for me to be responsible with my interpretations or reporting of facts. So... if you want... bear with me.

The whole thing is just so preposterous to me, so absolutely awful, so bigoted and prejudicial and – yes, I’ll say it – un-American, that I simply cannot say anything about it that doesn’t sound angry.

It’s not as if Californians voted it down unanimously, or even that there was a landslide at the polls, which might anger me more. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if one of the most progressive states in the nation, which has proven itself to be so forward-thinking and open-minded in the past, was really populated by homophobes and hate-mongers. But then again, if Proposition 8, which overturned a California Supreme Court ruling that upheld the rights of same-sex couples to marry in that state, had been passed by a large margin, there would have been little room for argument. I might have been able to just shake my head at people’s narrow-mindedness, reaffirm my lack of desire to ever move to California, and move on.

But the fact is that the 14 words added to the California State Constitution on November 5th, "Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California," were voted in by only 52.2% of voters. And the margin was determined almost entirely by those responding to calls by different religious groups to ‘get out and vote.' What makes that even grosser is that even groups from outside the state of California, who are somehow, magically, personally effected and offended by California gays, got involved. Specifically the Mormon church asked its members to donate to pro-Prop8 organizations like "protectmarriage.com," and their members responded with huge and numerous contributions that helped get more closed-minded Californians to the polls.

The Mormons. Who no longer officially permit, but still often engage in, polygyny. Suddenly these people have the right to tell other people who to marry? How does this work in their heads? Apparently their theory that "the formation of families is central to the Creator’s plan" excludes homosexuals... because... we just don't want to let them adopt any of the millions of children in the world who currently have no stable or loving parents. Because homosexuals can't procreate in the typical biological way, Mormons have decreed that their matrimonial union would be a threat to families rather than an opportunity to create more for children who have already been brought into this world. The Mormons, who bemoaned the fate of the "innocents" who have been aborted, don't seem to give a fuck about the kids who managed to be born but who nobody wanted.

...ok, ok, maybe I'm going overboard, but... seriously.

Anyway, the whole religious involvement thing does make sense on the one hand: religious groups tend to have very strong opinions about the institution of marriage. Of course they do. Marriage is a cornerstone of most moralistic theologies. Traditionally it has been touted as a holy sacrament in Western societies (at least ever since St. Thomas Aquinas called it that in the 13th century), and as a union between a man and a woman in Christian and Jewish belief systems. Which is all well and good. Freedom of religion and all that. In America religions are free, as privately led institutions, to back up whatever moral systems they choose. Their believers are free to hold those moral systems dear and to internalize them as their own personal beliefs, or natural truths, or whatever. If it makes them feel closer to their god, then I have no quarrel with them, so long as they are not hurting anyone by doing it.

But that last bit, “as long as they are not hurting anyone” – ah, there’s the rub. Because, well, people trying to force their religious, or religiously-based, beliefs on others in a way that discriminates against them socially and legally and economically – that’s hurting people. Church groups bringing their issues with other people’s sexuality into the sphere of legality, forcing their morality down people’s throats and into their bedrooms and bank accounts – that’s hurting people. And it’s violating a dictum that our founding fathers set down hundreds of years ago, one that has become as sacred as things are supposed to be allowed to be in our legal system: the separation of Church and State.

Given this edict, which hangs over all government proceedings like the necessarily absent word of God, how do governments justify poking their noses into people’s bedrooms and private lives on the basis of a religiously-fueled public sentiment? All forms of government, and law enforcement, exist in this country to protect their people from physical, economic, and other tangible harm. And they are allowing themselves to actually harm people. And while they are also to act in accordance with the will of the people in matters open to public voting, I can’t help but be disgusted that they are allowing nothing short of prejudice and discrimination to be part of their public agenda.

Does nobody remember Jim Crowe? Martin Luther King? What it means to allow prejudice, bigotry, fear, and hatred to govern public life? That people have died before and will die again because the law allows discrimination that gets out of control? That at a time in our history, white people considered other races to be ‘naturally inferior,’ and that now we've alloed people who consider gay marriages to be ‘unnatural’ to write laws? Doesn’t this ring a familiarly awful bell?

And furthermore, on a simply practical level, how can people not see that the “protection of marriage” line that’s being recited by those who voted for Proposition 8 really, honestly, makes no sense? How, exactly, are American marriages being threatened by the extension of marriage itself? Are married gays going to somehow go around breaking up heterosexual couples? Are married lesbians going to kidnap the children of two-parent homes once they’ve gained the same tax benefits as married straight people? Is the extension of tax and healthcare benefits to more people going to somehow rob the bank accounts of homophobes? In the genius words of Lewis Black, are there some "gay banditos" out there who will get married and then go from house to house, interrupting idyllic American dinners by fucking each other in the ass in tasteful pumps just to destroy the American family? The answer to all these questions, no matter how many times I look at them from different angles, is “no.” Of course fucking not.

The only people who will be hurt economically, socially, and possibly even physically by prejudicial attitudes being written into our laws and state constitutions are homosexuals who want to be treated the same as everyone else. And the only ones who would be hurt by those attitudes being written out of our laws would be... nobody. Sure, maybe those of us with narrow minds and feeble imaginations feel unnerved by seeing two men kissing or two women holding hands in public, but unless those two men or women force you to watch them perform their private business, or assault you, or rob you, the law should have no more right to interfere with them than you do.

The way I see it is this: if a church or an entire religion want to ban homosexual couples from sharing in their definition of marriage, well, that’s the business of that church or that religion. Nobody should be able to stop them, just like nobody has been able to stop the Boy Scouts from keeping gay men out of their leadership. They are private institutions, and people are free to choose whether or not they want to participate in their ceremonies and beliefs and sacraments, just as they are free to choose whether certain people are allowed to participate. Marriage as a religious ceremony and institution is fair game for the morality of the religion that is joining its believers in matrimony. No skin off my nose.

But when those religions try to start influencing the law, then I start getting angry. And when the law starts acting like a privately controlled religion, well then I get a bee in my bonnet. The legal code of a state or country, according to the philosophies on which American democracy is based, should have nothing to do with religiously-biased morality. If we can’t agree on who should be allowed the legal benefits of marriage, then we should all have to go without. Telling someone that he or she can’t have something just because somebody somewhere thinks that they shouldn’t has no place in a government that we are striving to make available to “all men” who were supposedly “created equal.” If we can’t agree on whether homosexuals should be granted civil unions versus marriages in the eyes of the law, then in order to prevent prejudicial treatment, we must not allow anyone to benefit from marriage on a legal level. Rather than accepting something that others cannot have for no good reason, we must legally sanction only civil unions for everybody.

Let churches handle marriage and do whatever they think is morally all right for their married faithful, and let civil unions be the territory of our laws. Let’s all pay the same in taxes once we’ve been unified civilly, and join ourselves in matrimony in whatever churches will accept us.

And... I'm spent. I can't even think about it anymore without getting angry and risking brain exolode-y. Which is frowned upon at art galleries, where primordial brain goo is frowned upon by the supposedly cultured bipedal, hairless apes who are supposed to be rising above mindless hatred and emotional violence. As if.

A New Yorker? Whining? No way.

In an attempt to stick to the ideals behind this blog (namely getting some of my bitching out in a productive and thoughtful way), and to lend it an air of authentic New York-ness, I shall commence complaining about people in the city.... now:

1) I was slightly disappointed in Halloween this year, as I am every year, by people's lack of excitement about the possibilities of the holiday, but all around I think it was a good Halloween. I'm almost always disappointed by reality, because versions of events in my head are generally much more interesting, layered, full of mystery, and overall more sparkly than they are in real life. Halloween bothers me sometimes because I see no reason why there shouldn't be all-out dancing in the strets, sparkles and confetti falling from the sky, and ghosts haunting every dark corner everywhere. But I can't really blame the holiday or people's lack of enthusiasm, because honestly, Halloween in New York is pretty close to an orgy of insanity. I just tend to miss out on the good stuff. This year it was my shoes that ruined the potential fabulousness, as I've mentioned before.

But this year I was disappointed by another phenomenon, which is where the bitching about New York life will really begin. On my way home on the 4 train at about 3:00 am (I think?), surrounded by half the cast of Alice In Wonderland (who were, sadly, not nearly as cool as I wished they were), the shoes on my feet cut off blood circulation to my head and I almost passed out. We had to get off the train so I could sit down, then catch the next one. When we got onto the next train, we were greeted by a boisterous crowd of about six or seven guys who immediately started making fun of Connor's costume. He was Roger Rabbit, and they started singing "Little Bunny Foo Foo" loudly and obnoxiously. Ugh. At 3:00 am with my feet killing me, this was the last thing I wanted to deal with. I glared at them for a while, then eventually stopped because they had moved on to somebody else to make fun of.

This "somebody else" was a guy who was in a costume or bizarre outfit of some sort that consisted of a vest and extremely short green shorts. I don't know what he was supposed to be or if it was even a costume, but kudos to him for not having frozen to death before he got on the train. Anyway, the group of annoying guys began loudly calling Green Shorts Guy a faggot, then proceeded to make their way slowly through the car toward him, asking onlookers if they liked faggots. Of course most people just ignored them, and I'm not even sure that Green Shorts Guy realized they were talking about him because he seemed oblivious, but eventually an onlooker said something to the trash-talkers. I didn't hear what he said, but within seconds, the entire group of them had surrounded the speaker-upper in a wall of thick leather and puffy down jackets. I really thought they were going to start beating him up.

I had been in a reverie most of this time and only tuned in when I noticed the wall of intimidation building up midway down the car. When I asked Connor what had happened, he told me they were ganging up on someone who had said something to them when they were being hateful toward homosexuals based solely on a man in short shorts who may or may not have been homosexual himself. I found myself passionately and furiously yelling:
"Are you serious? Are people still doing that? How stupid can you be?!" In retrospect, I shouldn't have yelled it that loudly, but luckily the intimidating guys were all too busy saying who-knows-what to the man who had stood up for freedom of sexuality to bother with my outburst. And, thankfully, the situation eventually diffused itself - I'm not sure how, but the guys started laughing and saying they were just having a good time. Then they sat down and started talking very loudly about how much heterosexual sex they have all the time, and so on and so forth.

Holy leaping Christ on a cross, what a load of horse shit. Now, I realize that in many ways my views on the world are not the same as other people's, and after all it's differences of opinion that keep the world as interesting a place as it is. But I simply cannot get over the optimistic idea that at the end of the year of our Lord 2008, in America, where equal legal rights have been granted to minorities and women, and where homosexuals may not have perfectly equal rights but are nonetheless a firmly established and culturally enriching part of our society, people should not think it's ok to be so... what's the word?... mind-boggling-ly moronic. I mean, how on earth does one manage to live in New York City and hold any type of prejudice against anybody? Particularly on Halloween, at 3 in the morning, in a subway car filled with people dressed as cartoon characters, ironic stereotypes, ridiculous celebrities, inanimate objects, and animals, how can one possibly take oneself and one's own insecurities so seriously that it would seem acceptable to physically intimidate someone for being an advocate of freedom of sexual preference or expression?

How is it possible that in this day and age, after so much work has been done by so many for so long to bring the idea of equality and acceptance and freedom to the masses, that people can be so absurdly closed-minded? How can people look upon each other at this moment in time and be bothered to discriminate, with the world economy breaking down around their ears, the natural world screeching full-tilt into disaster, and wars raging all around us? It scrambles my brains to think of it. Particularly this group of young men, who were mostly minorities and who were on a train to the Bronx, whose lives have probably all been affected in some way by the lingering traces of racism and prejudice, seemed to have no basis upon which to build a case for continuing the wholly idiotic attitude of intolerance.

I'm sure the argument could be made that they were just drunk guys hopped up on testosterone, a group of weak-minded individuals looking to pick on a more weak-bodied or weakly-represented individual to make themselves feel more like men. Sure. But that's no excuse and it's hardly an explanation. I have no way to wrap this up neatly, nor an argument to make, or even a suggestion to offer. I know the chorus: it's just human nature. The strong preying upon the weak. Fear of the unknown. Yadda yadda yadda. But understanding those arguments doesn't make them ok or make me ok with them. And neither does my anger about it. Education is the only route, I suppose, but who has the time to deal with raging dickheads?

2) Or, for that matter, who has the time to deal with vapid, hair-tossing, fake-ID wielding, drunk teenagers? NOBODY! And yet I, with all my temper issues and intense need for personal space, seem to be a magnet for them. Last night I went to see the Felice Brothers (http://www.myspace.com/thefelicebrothers) with a group of friends. The Felice Brothers are like hillbilly Catskill Mountain gospel music on hard-rock and they are f-ing AMAZING live, and you should go see them. They attract down-to-earth and beard-wearing crowds, at least to the degree than any New York City crowd can be down-to-earth or beardy. A very laid-back group ready and willing to have a fun time without stepping on anyone's toes. During the opening band, Deer Tick (who, by the way, I also recommend strongly), as I did my best to stand patiently behind some much-taller people who had no business being near the front, I suddenly found myself being pushed aside by the furious dancing of a girl on my left.

I swear I DID try to be polite for a minute or two. But about the third time I was hit in the face by her hair, I turned and glared at her. And there I was, face to face with an 18 year old girl wearing an outfit far too skimpy for a somewhat-outdoor concert in early November, drinking a beer and texting madly while the young man with her stared longingly at her profile. I almost vomited. But things were just getting started.

Keep in mind that the crowd at this show was very calm and pretty evenly spaced. There wasn't a whole lot of room to move around, but there was enough that being able to dance a bit or hold a conversation with your friends certainly didn't require you to bother the people around you at all. Not so for this girl. I have a feeling that when the bands were performing, she was actually very confused as to why people were looking at the stage and not at her. I'm not kidding.

She was dancing unecessarily energetically and provocatively, and literally flipping her hair every few seconds, hitting me with her elbows, legs, hands, and hair, texting almost constantly, and having one of the most inane conversations I have literally ever heard with the boy she was with. As she drained a beer I heard him ask, with stars in his eyes, if she had a fake ID. Her verbatim answer? "Yeah, a really good one. And I smoke pot, too!" Then she went back to flipping her hair at me and gyrating in a wholly inappropriate manner for mountain church music.

Like, OMG, that's tots groundbreaking! A fake ID and illegal drug use? Why, in the history of all "bad" things ever done, this girl was obviously setting new records. And ohmigod she was like so totally hot, too! Obviously like everyone wanted her.

Thank goodness she eventually moved away, since I was very, very, very close to punching her in the head or telling her male friend that if he didn't get her out of the reach of my hand, imminent doom was upon both of them. My friends made mild fun of me for being so angry about this girl's presence, which makes sense since I am very easily angered by lame people, particularly if they are in my personal bubble for no reason. This was around 10:45 pm. By midnight and a few songs into the Felice Brothers' set, I had mostly forgotten about Stupid Girl.

But then, suddenly, about 2/3 of the way through their set, she appeared once again, right beside me. And within a matter of seconds her hair was being flipped in my face again. And she was dancing again, hitting me with all manner of body appendages. I was livid. After the fast song at hand was over, she turned around to the guy behind her and threw her arms around his neck, declaring loudly (to the crowd, I think, and not to him) that she would never kiss him at this point. As a slow song started and I turned back to the music, I actually heard these words come out of her mouth - I am not making this up: "You love me, don't you? You're in love with me... You're really lucky, you know, that you're here with me."

. . .

Yeah, she said that. She said that. I have no words with which to follow that. I can't even really complain. It's just. Well. There it is. New York City, ladies and gents.