The Monocle

2009-01-15T21:34:00.000-08:00

Over the past week I've been reading a lot of poems. I just felt like I was getting a bit sick of, well, the kind of numbing, academic, descriptive sentences which I am confronted with constantly in my readings. Even a fictional novel, no matter how avant-garde, seemed insufficient. I wanted poetry - a world that I had dabbled in for a bit in middle school, and have since more or less abandoned.
For me, Poetry is, when you come down to it, the most precise and elegant form the english language can take. With nothing more than words and paper, writers can manipulate spacing, lines, even font for dramatic effect, but it really all comes down to words - everything hinges on the ability of these jumbles of letters to convey feelings that, suprisingly, large analytical paragraphs and sentances simply cannot. It is a high-wire act that must be flawless from beginning to and, where a single slip-up in word choice or placement can take away from the message.
You can read a poem once and get something out of it, but today I tried to memorize a few of my favorite works from Lawrence Ferlingetthi's 1959 work Coney Island of the Mind. It has a bit of the gritty, no-nonsense flavor of Charles Bukowski, but marries it with the beatific stylings of Allen Ginsburg.
Memorizing a poem is almost a dangerous act - by ingraining each stanza into your mind, you start to turn over each word, uncover all the possible meanings in your quest to find the "angle" that will stick the poem in your head. A line that seemed innocuous at first can, when this process becomes underway, reveal itself as rather disturbing. Nonetheless, the benefits outway (of course) some of the more psychological drawbacks. By memorizing something line by line, then stanza by stanza, and finally in its entirety, you percieve the hidden, internal relationships (whether by theme, rhyme, or some other connection) between words and phrases. If you've done it right, by the time you are done the poem has become a story, a complete and complex world unto itself. Secondly, because you have memorized the poem in the way best suited for YOU, once you deliver the poem it becomes your own - the cadences, what you stress and de-stress - it becomes a kind of Verbal Jazz in your hands where you have a set body of notes (words), but what you do with them is up to you. In about 10 or 15 minutes you have gone from suffering under a poem to becoming its master, taking it to places only you have envisioned.
I'll come back to this subject later, but here is a clip of Lawrence himself reading from a large swath of his poetry. The goodness begins at 5:30

Time travel through sound

2009-01-09T07:22:00.000-08:00

I was not expecting this.

Last night I was watching online a truly fascinating film, "Grey Gardens" by the Maysles brothers. It is the story of two aristocratic ladies, a mother and a daughter, who have fallen into poverty, are living together in the east Hampton in a completely dilapidated old house inhabited by raccoons, and who both are some of the most singularly unique and interesting people you can ever hope to meet.

Did I mention its a documentary? As in, their singular lives will now be known, in amazing intimacy, to anyone who watches it?

Anyway, over the course of it the movie the mother, 78 year-old "Big" Edie, sings a song from her youth, "Tea for Two". Now, I've seen movies that try to convey nostalgia for a previous period - see Woody Allen's "Radio Days". But this one sequence, of her singing in an ineffably beautiful and cheerful voice along a faded record,literally took my breath away. It seems to capture the melancholy of remembrance, and of remembering the "golden" 1920s in particular amongst her class - of modernity co-opted by a culture still sentimental, still attempting to behave with decorum. One particular section, from about 2:15 to 2:28, has an orchestration that evokes a very particular image to me - a sunny day on riverside drive, the skyscrapers of mid-town in the distance, and young, well-off couples in beautiful couture promenading along the woods as delicate, brightly colored automobiles stream by. Watching her sing, I feel like I am seeing a woman from the 1920s (her daughter seems more of a 1940s gal) who is stuck in a mental time bubble, physically aging, and AWARE she is aging, but retaining all the sensibilities and conceits of her youth. To listen to the orchestration alone, follow this link to the trailer.

As a historian I should be disseminating this music, and her actions, for hard, empirical insights into life in the past, the effect of senility on memory, etc. But right now I am content just to bask in this movie and let these two individuals wash over me - and this one sequence seems to affect me in ways that are inadequate to put to pixels. I hope you get something out of it as well, and I encourage you to watch the whole movie.

Musings on Glendale Graveyard

2009-01-01T13:55:00.001-08:00

Tired of staying at home this afternoon, I decided to take my bicycle out for a little spin through Glendale. It was freezing outside, but at first I didn't feel it - I just winded my way down Myrtle Avenue, the setting sun casting an orange hue on the shuttered businesses lining the streets. Scattered black-clad pedestrians filtered past as I slowly pedaled my way to my destination - the Cypress Hills cemetery.
Past an old catholic church and through a rickety iron gate, I saw before me an expanse of graves, covering the ground like fresh snow. Only the wind, graves, and the trees kept me company as journeyed past the rows of tombs. Looking to my right and left I could see entire streets of the dead, segregated into ethnic neighborhoods in death as they very well might have been in life - Chinese, Italian, Jewish, Irish. You don't need to be a sensitive soul to get a bit chokey as you see name after name, date of birth and date of death, each one having contained such vitality at one point, each one now inert (and in many cases, it seems, forgotten).
Finally, I wound my way up a hill to a copse of trees and laid my read bike against an elm. Before me, past the graves, past the trees, past the rickety fence, lay the skyline of Manhattan aglow with the fire of a setting sun. And here, strewn about me, were all those who had come here - to find freedom, to make a name for themselves, to discover themselves. And yet, these graves were not those of conquering heroes, but the nameless thousands who had lived and died in obscurity, and some in poverty. This contrast, between the vibrant, vertical spires of achievment and the horizontal expanses of the inert humble, is what struck me so.
For a long time cities killed more of their population than their citizens could replace: disease, malnutrition, crime, and all the others were to blame. To make up for this net loss, cities had to draw people in from the countryside, the pure, innocent townsfolk lured into the metropolitan furnace to, through their sacrifice, power the engine of modernity and progress. Today cities are rather more stable than in this period - birth rates have equaled or exceeded death rates. And yet, there is still something enormously powerful, and still relevant, in the idea that the city at once elevates and destroys, pulls up and pushes down, brings life and brings death to its citizenry. And yet, people still keep coming to the city - for only here can their dreams for a better life possibly come true. The graves surrounding me attest to how few of those dreams were ever, in the end, fully realized.
It is almost a psychological need for graveyards such as this to be relegated to the outskirts of the city. Just like the outcasts of the past, the homeless, the insane, the criminal, were banished from the center of the city into remote facilities to spare the "civilized" townsfolk knowledge of their existence, so the abodes of the nameless, humble dead must be kept out of sight, out of mind. In a metropolis so concerned with getting ahead, with the quick buck, with the hustle, the mere presence of these graves would, possibly, temper their spirits and bring them the kind of deep, profound thoughts which do not necessarily facilitate global capitalism. Ironically, the sight of the dead would make people too human.
And so the young, brilliant young things work at the office, celebrate their accomplishments, pursue their little goals and ambitions. And later, their bodies will be lowered into the ground in places like Cypress Hills Cemetery, next to people much like them from generations past. Their spirit, of course, will live on in the hearts of those that remember them. But to the distant metropolis, as vibrant as fire and yet cold as ice, it is as if they never existed.

Observations on Kwanzaa

2008-12-30T22:09:00.000-08:00

I have never experienced the mixture of uncomfortableness and absolute pleasure I had this past Sunday, when I crashed a Kwanzaa celebration in the basement of the Maysles theater in Harlem. To be the unexpected white observer of an exclusively black ceremony provided me with enough insights to fill an undergraduate anthropology paper, but I'll go for the basics here.
I had come up to Harlem with my roommate Joe to see Pressure, the first film to detail the lives of Caribbean immigrants in England. It was playing at a wonderful theater located in an old brownstone, with a small screening room and fold-up chairs emphasizing its ad-hoc, "grassroots" nature. This provided a wonderful contrast with the kind of glossy, overpriced, big-budget theaters most Americans are used to seeing movies in.
The movie itself was mostly good - better on its "slice of life" insights into the experiences of blacks in England than when it attempted to lecture us. Afterward we went downstairs to the basement of the theater, where we heard there was to be a Kwanzaa party.
Crowded with people, the dim lights revealing stacks of books, artwork, and dvd cases, we strolled through people dancing to reggae to set up a position near a bar. Everywhere were women and children, all black and all having a good time. Even though we stood out, I certainly did not feel that we weren't welcome. Me and Joe commenced to discuss the movie we had just seen. Just then a middle-aged lady came up to us and thanked us for coming - the party, she explained, was partly for Kwanzaa and partly a benefit for her son, who had been beaten by the police four months ago. As usual, social and cultural issues are never far apart. We were considering leaving at this point (we didnt' want to get home too late) but she urged us to stay for the Kwanzaa celebration proper. Of course, we opted to remain where we were to see what happened.
I was already somewhat giddy, a privileged "outside" observer to a ritual most white folk have only read about (if that). Then the music stopped, and the ceremony began. An old man intoned words in Swahili (I assume) while invoking the names of Karenga, Marcus Garvey, and other legends of African-American activism. Following this a lady, reading from a printed-out sheet, discussed the history and meaning of kwanzaa. Invented in 1966 by a university professor, Kwanzaa derived its name from a Kenyan harvest celebration, and is meant to serve as a unifying ritual common to all-African Americans, facilitating black culture, community, and activism. Religion plays a very small part here (reflective, I feel, in the secular-oriented context of its birth).
As I read this I felt myself tensing up, looking straight at her as she looked (it seems) straight at me. I wanted her to understand that I agreed with the premise of this ritual, that I had the utmost sympathy for her peoples' struggle - but there was no way for her to know this. I nodded my head furiously as she explained Kwanzaa's detailed set of rituals and relics, trying to signify that I both understood and approved. Above all, I did not want my presence to affect her descriptions and analysis of the holiday in any way. At the same time, though, I did feel particularly out of place and almost selfish - here I was, a white man, intruding into a professed "black" religion purely for my own curiosity and pleasure. Surrounding me were those for whom racism and discrimination were truly truly defining features of their world-view, and who bestowed upon Kwanzaa an importance I could never truly comprehend.
Nonetheless, as the candles were extinguished (by hand) and the spirits of African-American history were invoked, such as MLK and Touissant L'Overture, I felt more than ever that I had done the right thing by staying. I had become sensitized to a "religion" most of my friends and family had little knowledge of, and I had even more respect for a people who, in the face of such adversity, had carved out a space where they can maintain their own identities and agency. Finally, as the head of the service invoked Barack Obama and the strains of "its a long time coming" came out of the speakers, I sang along and felt, for the first time, a part of the ceremony. In the end, we are all inseparably one - while it is important to take pride in one or another groups' unique identity, what signifies "progress" to my mind is a world where people emphasize what unites them as opposes to what divides them. At its heart, Kwanzaa is about celebrating social justice in the face of adversity - a message everyone can identify with and share.

what I learned in Grad school pt. 1 of many

2008-12-28T15:55:00.000-08:00

Things I learned in Grad school
I am writing this after my last "official" day in grad school. Without accessing notes, just off the top of my head, here are some of my impressions on what I have learned about history, graduate school, and quite possibly myself (throws up).
First of all, I was te youngest person in my cohort. nobody else went straight from undergrad to graduate school - they had experience in the"Real world", getting full time jobs and marrying before coming here. This both intimidated and inspired me - intimidated, because i was surrounded by such mature, articulate scholars, and I was just a novice whose every word sounded, compared to theirs so much less informed (as it seemed to me). Inspired, because I realized just how much I actually knew while being 20 or even 30 years younger then these people, and how much potential for growth I still had. The experience of working and talking with them was easily the highlight of my semester.
While I didn't' get to know a lot of my cohort that well outside of class (shamefully I still don't' know much of their names), I managed to become good friends with three of them - Josh Martino, John Blanton, and Peter Alguer. All of them are blazingly intelligent, funny, mature individuals, and I can't wait to see them over the winter break. I might not have had time to see my G-school friends as much as I was able to see my Rampo friends back in undergrad, but since I should be seeing them for the next 8 years, I have plenty more time to get to know them.
My teachers are - quite a range of thoughts on this one, actually. I was expecting wise sages, and I got that in spades for sure. But they didn't seem as personable as the folks at Ramapo. Perhaps it is because they are so pressed for time, torn between different campuses, teaching responsibilites, research work, book signings, etc. It is flattering that I am simply in the same room as some of these peopel, but it also hurts when I am brushed off, again and again, because the professor has other priorites. For example, I tried to keep showing one professor my paper after each draft, and by the third draft he was visibly annoyed. Perhas I shouldn't have kept coming to him, but my insecurities drove me to it - and I never had the experience of a teaher directly begrudging the possibility of heling a student. A the same time, this same professor (who shall remain namless) truly is brilliant, and the discussions we've had in class I will always remember. Our other professors are equally intimidiatng/brilinat. I remember getting in a conversation with one about Slumdog Millionaire and being blown away by her analysis - and this from a polish sociologist! Hopefully as I keep taking courses with them in the future I willo begin to see them as partners as opposed to gatekeepers, whon whose every word my fate is determined.
What did I learn? Well, it depends on the class (of course). IN my seminar each o fus basically worked on our own individual papers, with little time for in-class "lessons". Still, it was wonderful delving into my topic for this seminar, bicycling in New York. Our literature of American history course was quite useful in getting me up to speed in terms of my pre-1865 history, and a few of the texts I took out I hope to buy over the winter (I didn't buy a SINGLE BOOK for ANY of my courses this semester, relying on New York's amazing library system to get me everything I needed. w00t. ) Comparative history opened my eyes to an enormous range of critical theories which I want to incorporate into my future work, including transfer hsitory, histoire crossee, entangled histories, and various other methodologies. Out of all my classes, however, it was definitely Philosophy of History that shaped the way I think the most. The free-wheeling discussions we had about life, fat,e, the value of capitalism and democracy, man's responsibility to man, etc were quite stirring, and will form the basis of many a future blog post. I was particularly struck by the philosophies of Reinhold Niebuhr, a brilliant and compassionate theologian of the mid-20th century who urged mankind to refrain from the kind of idealistic, yet ultimately futile attempts to bend history to their will, whether through fascism, communism, or the spread of so-called "universal" values such as Liberalism. While I don't see myself becoming an intellectual philosopher, what I learned in this class has undoubtedly made me a more perceptive, more compassionate human being. That has to count for something.

Volunteering for Obama: October 25th

2008-10-25T21:43:00.000-07:00

I knew I had to volunteer for Obama when I realized that I was having difficulty sleeping. Just imagining him delivering his state of the union address, visiting foreign leaders, signing legislation made me so happy, so improbably giddy, that it was obvious that simply signing one measly vote for him was not going to be enough. So that’s the first reason – sheer enthusiasm and restlessness. I didn’t want to stand on the sidelines for this one. I wanted to participate more fully in the unlikely story of Barack Obama’s rise to the Whitehouse.
Had Obama been assured of victory, this desire could have been seen as an easy way to relieve myself of some guilt. But volunteering for the campaign wasn’t only important to me – it seemed necessary for victory as a whole. McCain and Obama were (and still are) neck and neck, and to lose a single Kerry state to McCain would probably doom his chances. Right across my border was Pennsylvania, swinging wildly, undecided. The possibility of it falling to McCain seemed very likely to my paranoid mind, and I had a horrible flash-foward of him being inagurated while I, consumed with guilt for not doing my part, commenced to hang myself (or at least flee to Canada).
So I decided to devote a day to travelling out to Pennsylvania to help the campaign register voters and make it that much tougher for McCain to win the state. This didn’t mean hunting down undecided voters on the street or tearing down McCain-Palin signs. It meant taking lists of voters who had pre-registered with the Obama campaign, knocking on their doors, and finding out who there were voting for November 4th. If for Obama, great – want to volunteer? If undecided, here’s some campaign literature, along with a personal pitch. If voting for McCain – that’s your decision, as long as you are voting. This isn’t about alienating people, it’s about getting them aware your side of the story. This campaign is a battle, and whoever can mobilize the most voters, wins. That was what I was going to do.
The Obama campaign made this process ridiculously easy. Going on their website I was able to arrange with a coordinator dates, times, and travel logistics. I wound up being assigned to Easton Pennsylvania, a medium-size town on the Jersey border. Riding shotgun with my dad, seeing suburbs turn to corn fields and SUVs morph into pickup trucks, I really did get a sense of adventure and challenge. I was a stranger here, with nothing but ideas and glossy brochures to sell a candidate. Needless to say, we worked on our pitches straight through the drive.
We arrived in the city at around 10:15, and drove down to the church basement that served as the campaigns outreach HQ (lack of space in the official HQ necessitated this move). I was expecting a well-run, crowded and good-natured operation, and I was not surprised. As soon as I was in I was registered, assigned a route and campaign literature, and met our partner John, and pharmacist from India who had been volunteering since Primary season. After some breakfast and a brief motivating spiel “don’t’ listen to polls. As far as I am concerned, we are down 5 points. Every vote counts!”, we headed out.
We got assigned about 80 doors to knock on, most of which were located in two retirement communities. About half of the apartments we visited were empty – no response to buzzers or knocks (and before you assume, yes we heard for footsteps. They didn’t avoid us because of our Obama buttons). Those that emerged, mostly women in their 70s and 80s, were greeted with the following introudtion: “Hello ____, my name is Danny, and I’m a volunteer for the Obama campaign. We were just checking up to see what your voting plans were!”
There were four basic responses to our inquiry. I am happy to say, most people smiled and said they were planing giving their vote to Obama. Even previously undecided folks had made up their minds by this time. One lady showed us into her room and revealed a trove of Obama-themed paraphernalia (magazine covers, buttons, posters) that she was hoping to save and give to her granddaughter. All of them stated why they were voting for the candidate in matter of fact, common-sense ways. He’s reliable. He’s going to help the economy. It was so heartening to see that Obama’s message has hit a nerve amongst Americans of every age, and not just a bunch of entitled twenty-something celebrities (and Barbra Streisand). Obama's message is one of substance as well as style. McCain's choice of Sarah Palin as running mate certainly didn't hurt Barack's chances out here (One lady, who hadn’t voted for anyone since Eisenhower, was motivated to vote just out of fear of a Palin presidency).
There were about five folks who remained undecideds. It seemed wrong to argue with them about the merits of either candidates, so we just gave them some campaign brochures and moved on. Only one lady outright said that she was voting for McCain, and before we had a chance to say anything she had shut the door in our face. Finally, a few people had assumed that it was too late for them to vote, since they hadn’t registered for this year. We had to explain that if they had already voted in a previous election they were already eligible to vote for this year, and that with absentee ballots they didn’t even need to leave the home. This was by far the most satisfying work we did, informing and helping worried voters that they were going to be able to vote for the campaign they supported.
Most of the drama that took place yesterday was from reactions of non-registered folks to our Obama regalia. Two old folks we passed by on the street, one of whom wearing a Sanitation Workers shirt, got in a heated argument with my dad over whether Obama was a socialist or not. Though McCain was a snake, the man insisted that Obama was going to destroy our economy. His friend stated that democrats were going to write in Hillary Clinton on their ballots as their choice, invalidating all the polls and deep-sixing Obama’s chances to win. When I stated that Obama was only 8 when Ayer’s attacks on the pentagon were begin planned (yes, this came up), he exclaimed “Obama wanted to blow up the pentagon when he was 8? He can’t run for president!” After about 10 minutes of slightly heated dialogue, we eventually moved on.
A few bystanders in the retirement home proudly stated that they were voting for McCain without instigation by us – one man in a wheelchair even tried to stop me from entering an apartment block, claiming I wasn’t allowed to solicit votes (after immediately responding that we weren’t soliciting, just checking up on likely voters, he sheepishly let me in).
Overall – we knocked on 67 doors, with 20 folks saying they supported obama (only 8 of which had said to previously), 4 people who were undecideds, and 1 lady who supported McCain. We left campaign literature at the rest of the doors. I can now rest a bit easier , knowing I did more than the bare minimum in helping out Obama. There’s still more to be down though – I am probably going to work phone-banks before the fourth. I encourage all of you to do what you can now, or forever hold your peace. Just voting in a "safe" state for Obama doesn't count. As special and wonderful as you are, he's going to win New York and New Jersey with or without your vote. Pennslyvania, however, is a close run thing, and our actions can make all the difference in the world. Don't sit this one out. Take a few hours, make some phonecalls, and change America for the better.

polls, today and yesterday

2008-09-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

If you have any interest in today's world whatsoever, you will be aware of the constantly fluctuating set of polls presented to us concerning the presidential election. Every week we are given a new set of information showing how popular, or unpopular, our candidates are. We are so captivated by this data that we analyze it like the talmud, with each uptick or downtick containing enormous ramifications. Surely, some perspective is needed.

An invaluable, and suprisingly overlooked relief is offered by comparing this year's polling data with 2004's data. It seems so long ago, but even I am suprised by how the dynamic of today's race differs (in a good way) from that campaign. Here are too graphics, side by side, of the data on a national basis. Red's bush, Blue's kerry, Yellow is Nader.

Now, I couldn't find a linegraph for this year's polling. But here's the gist - Obama's been ahead since Jan, with his greatest lead around July. In September the gap narrowed considerably until Mccain overtook him on the second week for one brief shining moment. Today, as of September 25, Obama has regained the lead by about 3 points.

Compare this trajectory to four years ago. There Bush was ahead the vast majority of the time by a rather large percentage compared to today's candidates. The only time Kerry broke even was after his convention and during the debates. If the Kerry camp had Obama's numbers today, they would be quite happy.

How do you feel about this kind of comparision? Is it valuable, or does it deceive more than it reveals?

Ads well done: Dexter

2008-09-17T22:00:00.001-07:00

Advertising has fascinated me for a long time. I was first drew to them by their their visual impact, as evidenced by my collection of early 20th-century posters. I vastly prefer a subway full of interesting ads than the kind of blank walls that confronted me in, say, the Prague Metro. At the same time, watching Mad Men gave me an appreciation of the enormous complexity in marketing a product, and the kinds of questions a creative director/copyrighter faces when deciding on a promotion strategy. What do people want? Do you aim for their head, or their heart? Use a technique that hasn't been done before, and you could be a laughingstock or a genius. Its tremendously interesting, and exciting, and appreciating the work behind an ad has made me more aware of their presence, and effectiveness, in real life.
I just wanted to talk about a campaign thats in force today that I find particularly effective. Dexter (on Showtime) is one of those shows that I keep hearing about but have never been particularly driven to watch. It just hasn't really stood out to me from all the other network dramas. But a recent campaign has began promoting the show on posters replicating magazine covers. Its as if Dexter is on the front page of some of America's most well-known periodicals:

First of all: design A+. the hotographs, the font, the article headings: its outstanding how close they got into the heads of these magazines' editors. They've boiled down these magazines into their essense

Secondly, the idea is great. By using different magazines you have a better chance of roping in a wide variety of viewers - those who read the New Yorker, People Magazine, Esquire etc. It forms a bridge of familiarity to an otherwise unfamiliar show. It would be a lot different if it was just a picture of the main character's face with the title: not clever, not particularly engaging.

Anyway, while I might not be able to watch Dexter in the future (no cable) I'll be sure to check out its website and find out exactly what makes the show "tick", pardon the term.

What are some ad campaigns that really "worked" for you?

This day in (my) history

2008-09-11T06:26:00.001-07:00

I grew up, if not in the shadow of the Twin Towers, at least within shouting distance. Looming over the Hudson, so blandly out-of-scale with the rest of downtown, they seemed less like buildings to me than abstractions of Corporate Power and Wealth (as they did to people in Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan as well). It had none of the glamor or history of the Empire State Building, with its shining limestone eagles and zeppelin mooring mast. Instead, the Twin Towers served as landmarks for me, and I could always orient myself by gauging my location in relation to them. Only occasionally, as during the evening hours when light transformed the steel into thick columns of blazing sunlight in the heart of downtown, did the towers develop a personality of their own.

My morning busride took me past the towers. I am convinced that if I had not been sleeping, and had peeked outside my window on the way to school, I would have seen the first planes hit. As it was, I went to school without incident. By the second period, we were all called into the gymnasium for an important announcement. Our principal, usually in such a good mood, stated as sollemnly as he could muster "a plane has hit the world trade center". The reaction of most of us: "that sucks". Then someone called out "was it a Cessna?" "a jetliner". We weren't the same after that.

Classes continued as usual, but rumours seemed to filter through the doors in spite of our lack of tvs and radios. Two towers had been hit. The pentagon. Pennsylvania. War. Tens of thousands dead. FInally we couldn't take it, and we all gathered in the one room with a grainy television to watch history unfold. After five minutes I had to leave: I couldn't bear to see my landmarks so mutilated. I was afraid of returning home to see desecrated monuments, little knowing that the terrorists had not simply destroyed the towers, but had erased them, leaving an absence far worse than a ruin.

In spite of my anguish, I was also strangely thrilled. I was a very patriotic lad at this point, and I had immersed myself in the patriotic annals of World War II, the CIvil War, etc. THis was Pearl Harbor, Fort Sumter, and the Gulf of Tonkin all rolled into one on my doorstep. The future was now uncertain, but big events lead to bigger responses, right? I actually looked forward to living through a period I could look back upon later and say "I was there". I should mention that I called both my parents immediately to see if they were all right. I never doubted their survival, but looking back now I should have been far more worried than I was.

Our superiors eventually decided to cancel school, and I found myself in a bus returning home. I refused to look outside my window. I was simply too afraid of seeing the smoke and ash looming over my city, poisoning it forever. Instead my eyes found refuge in an US History II text which I read with insane dedication, trying to replace my fears with the kind of faith in progress that only an American high-school textbook can provide. As time progressed I found that our bus had stopped. I finally looked out of my window- traffic all the way back to Giants Stadium. The feds had closed off the Lincoln and the Holland tunnels, but by doing so had blocked access to the city in-between them: Hoboken! My city was off-limits, courtesy of the United States goverment.

After quick planning, our bus drivers decided to pull into a police station to find another way of geting home. At one point we were seriously considering staying at the station for a night, an option I didn't mind much (they had cable and MAXIM). At the last minute, however, I got word that my mother was on the police line: she had actually called every place I could be around my school until she got a hold of me. Love you, Mom.

She told me that she was staying with her mother and Sister down in Essex County, and was going to pick me up. Gratitutude, thankfullness. When my mom came and picked me up I remember being strangely quiet. It was only after I begged my relatives not to make me watch the 24-hour news cycle that my emotions came out.

The days following 9-11 were, if anything, even more dramatic than the event itself: the smell of ash across the river, the makeshift memorials, vigils, and prayer meetings that brought our entire community together, the performance of "somewhere" that left all of us crying in our libraries basement, the sound of military jets overhead, a random hug given to a stranger, jungle-camoflauge troops patrolling downtown. MaybeI'll write about those one day. But for now, I can only look back seven years and try to preserve what the 21st century's beginning felt like to a 15 year old boy.

A random thought: money, time, and values

2008-09-02T18:46:00.000-07:00

Its worth thinking occasionaly about how the design of day-to-day objects reveal the values of our, and other, cultures. Take cash. As everyone knows, the back of our greenbacks tend to contain pictures of famous old places in American history, such as the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Capitol. On the fronts are famous Dead White Presidents (and one non-president, Alexander Hamilton), folks sure to instill patriotic feelings in every American Heart.

But whats this? The Europeans do things differently? What a suprise! On their fancy Euros, mr. John Q Continental gazes on pieces of architecture - symbolically-laden gates and bridges - that take on more advanced forms with each demonination progression.

Whereas Americans favor antique architecture exclusively, European currency seems to encourage you to possess modernity, i.e. higher demoninations of money. Whereas American dollars features a specific group of rather un-representative dead folks, Europeans favour a broader appeal for unity. These are completely subjective observations, of course, but a "deep reading" of things like currency can be interesting, and even fun. If you doubt me, go to the Engraveyard at lileks.com. Its a hysterical look at odd currency from all places and times. I'll definitely do more features on it in the future.

On being (almost) mugged

2008-08-25T07:30:00.000-07:00

My mental image of New York is not exactly a sex-and-the-city consumer utopia, but for some reason random street crime has never entered the picture. Never again. For better or worse, my attitude towards Gotham has changed as the result of an incident last night.

The time: 1:35 am. The place: Myrtle ave, 65th st. After a wonderful day of grooving to Yo La Tengo and dancing on stage with the cast of HAIR, I was tired and looking forward to sleep.

I was only one block from home.

Footsteps behind me. A young black man, maybe about 20 with a big afro and a lanky frame, steps alongside me and asks if I had a dollar. I said I didn't have any, which was true (I spent my last single on a Mcdonalds cheeseburger). He asked me again "You sure you don't even have a dollar?" Again, I said "no", maybe a bit too brusquely. He was being a bit persistent, but other then that I assumed he was just another homeless guy asking for some change.

"OK, then I'm going to make this quick. Give me everything you have in your pockets NOW". Literally as I was turning the corner on my block, I turned around and saw him with his shirt pulled up over his nose and reaching for something in his pocket.

Think: what did I have in my pockets? My cellphone, my wallet, my keys. I wasn't going to give him this stuff. The mind operates pretty quickly under pressure, and I recalled someone saying in a safety class in middle-school, of all places, that if you are ever approached by a threatening person you should yell "HELP!" as loudly as possible. That's the only tool I had for getting this guy off me safely.

I told the guy "I am on my block now man. You don't wanna do this. I'm gonna scream for help". "You really think people are gonna come down to hel-" "HEEEELLLPP SOME GUY IS TRYING TO MUG ME! HEEEELLLP" "You are alone mother-fuc- "HEEEEELLLLP!" As I turn around again I hear the guy slinking away back to Myrtle Avenue.

At this point bravado overtakes me a little bit "You run motherfucker! That guy in the afro tried to Mug me!" as if my block was going to collectively run out and capture him. I heard him say "Suck my dick!" and then disappear behind a corner.

This had all taken place over about 2 minutes. My body hadn't caught up with events - my heart was beating normally, my muscles were loose. It was only after I got back in my apartment that I started to shake somewhat uncontrollably.

This was my first encounter with honest-to-god street crime, and it easily could have ended badly. Nobody actually came out of the apartments to help me - what if the mugger had continued pressing me? I suppose I would have given him my wallet, and maybe bargained to keep some of the useless identity cards (fat chance).

This event needs more digesting. Have any of you had experiences with street crime? If so, what happened, and how did it change your outlook?

Punk is dead - observations

2008-08-20T21:05:00.000-07:00

I was getting into the first avenue L train this evening when I came upon a large group of punks. They looked like punks: Doc Martins, paperclips through ears, purple hair, the whole thing. They sounded like punks: yelling loudly, sliding on bannisters, making a scene. But then I noticed a group of them buying metrocards - something decidedly un-punk. As I passed one by the turnstile I commented "Shouldn't you be hopping the turnstile? Buying metrocards seems very un-punk!" The guy looked at me briefly, then muttered an expletive and continued waiting for his paying freinds.

So these were not, in fact, punks - but only people dressed like punks. I almost wished to see a group of people who were pursuing an active alternative to our society's values, but was dissapointed to find this not to be the case.

I read in a book defending anti-modern thinkers of the 19th century that the greatest lie our culture has given us is that you can find freedom through self-expression. It seems capitalism is able to take any movement towards this end, whether it be hippies, punks, riot grrls, or anarchists, and package it as a consumer drive. Our system is built FOR the purpose of satisfying one's desire to express themselves, and can easily adapt itself to commodify the latest trend.

What groups dedicated to uprooting society through self-expression really exist today? I can't think of any, much less any that seem successful. No doubt that a social movement like PUnk allows people the freedom to express themselves in ways no other generation has before - but sticking a pin through your nose will not lead to broader social changes, it will only accomplish your own personal wish. It seems that the most direct refutation of an atomizing political and economic structure is a broad, unfied body that unites as many people under one roof as possible in the name of the greater good. Yes, you could lose your traces of your own "identity" within it, but it should be able to accomplish far more for society, and ultimately yourself, then by retreating from the world in order to achieve a myopic vision of who you "truly are".

The forces that seek to control you want you to think that you are unique and different. We'd be better off if we realize that we are all human, and all belong in the same boat.

awesome photoblog -Shorpy's 100-year old Photoblog

2008-08-14T11:42:00.000-07:00

Just as reading about a place is no substitute for actually visiting it, to simply read about the past is not enough - you must experience it with your other senses. To hear Franklin D. Roosevelt's voice, to hold a WWII-era rifle in your hands - these aren't superficial devices to make "history come alive", they really help you understand what it was like to live in the past.

That is what makes a website like Shorpy's 100-year old Photoblog so fantastic. Here you see amazingly high-def

photographs from the 1860s up with a clarity that is truly shocking. These aren't some

actors dressed up - these are real 1938 human beings, and just look at their eyes.

How are they different from us? Do they think like we do? Do they have the same

interests, priorities, and why?

Beyond vanished characters, photographs conjour up vanished landscapes. Just

check this out:

As time goes on I'll post some more of my favorite pictures from this and other sites.

But defitely take the time to check out the page on your own - you'll find some real

gems. I'll leave you with this amazing photograph of Aviation employees looking

skyward at an airshow in 1941.

The essence of improv

2008-08-10T18:34:00.000-07:00

Four years ago I was getting out of the 23rd avenue PATH station in New York when I beheld a strange site. A motley group of comedians, dressed in ridiculous get-ups, were parading down the street and handing out flyers. Uncharacteristically I accepted one. "Del Close Improv Marathon" it read, 72 straight hours of improv comedy. I decided to take a chance and buy a ticket.

Since then I have become an Improv comedy devotee. I prefer it to Sketch, Standup, or any other format. Why is this?

Is it the performers? No, the best standups and sketch performances can leave me howling.

Is it the humor? No, you can (theoretically) find the same kind of jokes, one-liners, and situations in any of these formats.

The answer is Danger. Watching Improv comedy is a theatrical equivalent to watching a gladiator fight. These men and women are creating comedy in front of you, with no room for error. One false move, and a scene could be ruined. One sudden insight or turn-of-phrase, and a scene could be rescued. Its all up to them, and its all happening live. This knowledge keeps the audience at the edge of their seats - they applaud and laugh not only becuase what they see is funny, but because they are rooting, in a sense, for these folks to triumph in the face of awkwardness, boredom, and silence.

Thats what I find so fascinating about these improv groups - there's a fine line between being individually funny, and working together to make a SCENE funny. One funny guy who screws up the dynamic can, ultimately, kill a bit. Its great to watch these people figure out what's working and what needs to be cut - its a performance and a puzzle all at once.

And when you follow and improv group's through a few performances, like I do, the analogy with sports seems even more fitting. You start rooting for particular "players" to save a scene if its going bad - particular "plays" that they rely on to get them out of trouble.

Here are some groups I encourage you to follow - Respecto Montalbon, Death By Roo Roo, and Mother.

What do you guys think? Is improv your thing, why/why not?

Groundbreaking JFK doc

2008-08-07T07:23:00.000-07:00

We take for granted that today's politicians are extensively media-trained, unable to offer anything spontaneous (or honest) in front of a television camera. This was not always so, however, and that is the amazing quality that stands out in Robert Drew's two documentaries on JFK's presidential race and adminsitration, Primary and Crisis. Here we see Hubert Humphrey asleep on the way to campaign against this New England Upstart; Governor Wallace speaking freely about his thoughts on segregation; Jacqui Onnassis fidgeting nervsouly behind her back as she speeks to a delegation of Polish-Americans. Adding to this cinema-verite is the amazing mobility of the camera, allowing Robert to capture the full scale of a political campaign, from the jungle of the convention floor to the cramped siderooms where the real deals are made. It doesn't hurt that its subject is one of the most telegenic and dynamic political creatures of the 20th century.

All in all, this is a ground-breaking documentary that captures the dawn of the media-politician right in a way that can never be replicated. Check out more about the doc here.

Funny/Sad department

2008-08-05T17:54:00.000-07:00

I often wonder what would happen if the greatest songs of the 20th century were combined with Home Depot Marketing. Thanks to the internet, I can stop wondering. And start crying.

On the Sunny Side

2008-08-04T09:21:00.002-07:00

It isn't the most innovative. It isn't the most technically spectacular. But every time I hear Tommy Dorsey's version of "On the Sunny Side of the Street", I feel completely at ease. Its the quintessential feel-good swing song. The melodic riffs and punchy brass of its first half are great in their own right, but once those chorus gals come up on the second half, you just get carried along. It helps that their four-part 40s-style harmonies are some of the tightest I've ever heard. I know its corny as all hell, but you can't help but feel the kind of hopeful outlook many Americans felt as we were getting out of WWII. Other countires have had bouts of optimism, but few really felt as confident as we did in the immediate post-war years. Of course, it couldn't last. I'm happy now to be living in a time when technology (internet) and certain politicians (Obama) are once again giving us a "yes we can" attitude, but you won't find songs like this coming out anytime soon. Only through their self-contained cultural products, like this song, can we vicariously live through the past. Thank goodness for youtube.

On Right Wing Haters

2008-08-04T08:15:00.000-07:00

Routines are important. They give you a structure to cling onto, to provide stability in uncertain times. For me, there are three essential, daily updated websites I must check in the morning before I do anything else, websites so crucial that to miss them would cause physical pain - salon.com, slate.com, and nytimes.com.

On a later date I'll talk about exactly why these websites have such a dear place in my heart. For now I just want to thrust some nice articles into your face that I found on them.

"Ante Up Luda" talks about what I mentioned in yesterdays post - the potential backlash voters might have against hollywood types taking their love of Barack to far and alienating peeps. As he explains,

I'm not calling for censorship, but I am calling for "sense"-orship. Any chance these right-wing player haters get to bad mouth hip-hop and put Obama on blast at the same time is like Christmas andJefferson Davis' birthday all rolled into one.

As you can tell, he's also a pretty funny too. Check it out.

Next up, Changing Lanes is a good article by Elizabeth Kolbert (the anti-colbert) decries McCain's campaign tactics. Blaming Obama for high gas prices? Looks like the Straight Talk Express doesn't run during campaign season. Its too bad - I really liked McCain in the late 90s, but an maverick can only maintain his independence for so long in 8 years of Karl Rove-run republican rule. For more on McCain's mudslinging antics, and how effective its gonna be, direct your attention to The Low Road Warrior in last weeks issue of New York Metro. Its a disheartening view of a campaign gone south real far, real fast. And worst, it might just win him a seat in the whitehouse.

Okay, enough of this depressing stuff. I leave you with the first episode of the fine comic/cum/webseries, Get Your War On

Fashion, Politics, and other Synonyms

2008-08-03T20:14:00.001-07:00

Ran across this is this weeks New York Metro -

http://nymag.com/news/intelligencer/48938/

Barack Obama may not be “the biggest celebrity in the world,” as last week’s controversialMcCain ad charged, but his wife’s a fashion icon. Harper’s Bazaar has photographed supermodel Tyra Banks for the cover of its September issue, and, cheekily, she’ll be featured in a photo spread imagining Michelle Obama as First Lady. (On the cover, she’ll just be Tyra.) The September Bazaar hits newsstands this week. “Harper’s Bazaar photographed Tyra for a politically themed feature in the September issue,” says a spokeswoman for the magazine.

Sometimes, I feel that the entertainment industry's love affair with Obama is going to lead to a backlash. Middle America (and Mccain is counting on this, i.e. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-kHLS5i61M) will probably not be convinced to vote for Obama

by the endorsement of

Ludacris (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulcGldJlKiA), Tyra, or any other celebrity

short of Charleton Heston or Tom Hanks. In fact, I am worried that they will be turned off.

Then again, those folks would probably vote for McCain anyway, and

the votes they acquire, somehow, from celebrity-lovers might be beneficial.

If those people ever voted. Which they don't.

Or do they? DISCUSS!!

btw how can I link directly to youtube videos rather than using these clumsy htmls? help would be appreciated.

My first post.

2008-08-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

We all have random thoughts and insights that swirl around our head, and don't really get anywhere past that. For the most part, thats a good idea. But, once in a while, we all have something interesting to say. Thank God for the blog!

A lot is happening to me these days. Graduated college in May. Starting Graduate School on August. Got an apartment in Queens in July in a neighborhood I've never stepped foot in before. Its an interesting experience to deal with these novel situations on a day to day basis, and I thought it could be nice to spill my guts, every so often, onto the Internet and give you a glimpse into the fast-changing world of Me. That way, if you ever attend CUNY in the fall of 2008 and live in Glendale, Queens with Joe Gibbons, you'll know exactly what and what not to do. Writing about this stuff also relieves me of stress, homicidal tendencies, and makes me a little more introspective about the shite I do. Which I suppose is a Good Thing. I'll also post pretty pictures once I get a camera.

On a less practical note, I am also very interested in the world outside school and home - art, culture, music, politics, books, movies - and I would like to share some of my favorite examples of these with you. The internet is full of links, articles, pictures, and videos that catch my attention on a daily basis, and a few of my friends have recommended having a blog where I put up some of my favorites for your edutainment. Such as this trailer for a movie I love, Up the Yangtze

Finally, occasionally I'll find myself compelled to talk about something that I have absolutely no authority in - a news item, thoughts on architecture and art, or your relationship with your mother. This website serves this purpose as well. Please bear with me. And of course, I urge you to debate and discuss anything you want on this website. The Monocle accepts all.

And with that, lets set this SOB out to sea.