...and livesto tell the
tale (thanks
for the picture!)
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
politics as usual II
Oh New York, how easy it is to love you, but also how easy it is to be disgusted by you, especially when it comes to politics.
We've got a city-subsidized* brand new $1.5 billion baseball stadium already falling apart (and already in violation of ADA compliance regulations) brought to us by companies either linked to the Mob or under indictment. It's always so heartening to know where our tax money goes.
We've got Bernard Kerik, once upon a time NYC Police Commissioner, close friend to one Rudolph Giuliani, and George W. Bush's nominee for Secretary of Homeland Security, now being indicted on 16 counts of conspiracy, corruption, tax fraud, and mail fraud, and facing jail time pending his upcoming trial.
We've got a mayor who, drunk on the glory of elected office, saw fit to overturn New York's term limits in order to run for a 3rd term, spending millions upon millions of dollars in a race in which he's been consistently well ahead in the polls ("blowout" is the term currently being bandied about as a probable outcome of next week's election), and bringing in the aforementioned Giuliani, race-baiter and fear-monger extraordinaire, to campaign on his behalf. As a friend of mine recently put it, "Right, if you're already winning, why piss off half your constituency by bringing in the fascist?"
All in all, I'm still not decided on who I'll vote for come next Tuesday morning (and all you loyal readers know how much I love to pull that lever). It seems poor Thompson is a lost cause at this point, but it's bound to be low voter turnout and it'd be nice to see Thompson at least give Bloomberg a run for his money.**
*"In 2006 the New York Yankees were given about $1.5 billion in tax benefits and public funds for the building of a new Yankees Stadium. Over $500 million was direct cash and tax relief."
**Bloomberg's taking a lot of flak these days about how much money he's blowing through on this campaign alone ($85 million and counting) and cumulatively on all of his campaigns ($250 million and counting), though it's also been pointed out that $250 million is about what was spent on the latest Harry Potter movie. It is, granted, an insane amount of money, and renders the whole election process arguably up for grabs to the highest bidder. But still, doesn't it seem a little perverse to compare it to the cost of a movie? $250 million to run one of the biggest cities in the world for twelve years compared to $250 million for a few hours' entertainment? And the first one is the one worth condemning? Really?
We've got a city-subsidized* brand new $1.5 billion baseball stadium already falling apart (and already in violation of ADA compliance regulations) brought to us by companies either linked to the Mob or under indictment. It's always so heartening to know where our tax money goes.
We've got Bernard Kerik, once upon a time NYC Police Commissioner, close friend to one Rudolph Giuliani, and George W. Bush's nominee for Secretary of Homeland Security, now being indicted on 16 counts of conspiracy, corruption, tax fraud, and mail fraud, and facing jail time pending his upcoming trial.
We've got a mayor who, drunk on the glory of elected office, saw fit to overturn New York's term limits in order to run for a 3rd term, spending millions upon millions of dollars in a race in which he's been consistently well ahead in the polls ("blowout" is the term currently being bandied about as a probable outcome of next week's election), and bringing in the aforementioned Giuliani, race-baiter and fear-monger extraordinaire, to campaign on his behalf. As a friend of mine recently put it, "Right, if you're already winning, why piss off half your constituency by bringing in the fascist?"
All in all, I'm still not decided on who I'll vote for come next Tuesday morning (and all you loyal readers know how much I love to pull that lever). It seems poor Thompson is a lost cause at this point, but it's bound to be low voter turnout and it'd be nice to see Thompson at least give Bloomberg a run for his money.**
*"In 2006 the New York Yankees were given about $1.5 billion in tax benefits and public funds for the building of a new Yankees Stadium. Over $500 million was direct cash and tax relief."
**Bloomberg's taking a lot of flak these days about how much money he's blowing through on this campaign alone ($85 million and counting) and cumulatively on all of his campaigns ($250 million and counting), though it's also been pointed out that $250 million is about what was spent on the latest Harry Potter movie. It is, granted, an insane amount of money, and renders the whole election process arguably up for grabs to the highest bidder. But still, doesn't it seem a little perverse to compare it to the cost of a movie? $250 million to run one of the biggest cities in the world for twelve years compared to $250 million for a few hours' entertainment? And the first one is the one worth condemning? Really?
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
'no one's laughing at god when they're saying their goodbyes...'
A coworker's sister passed away earlier this week and I can't help but simultaneously cry in sadness for his loss and cry in gratitude for the brother I am so very lucky to have.
(Regina Spektor, Laughing With)
(Regina Spektor, Laughing With)
Saturday, October 10, 2009
fever dreams
I'm not feeling feverish or anything but this little infection I have, if left to its own devices, could theoretically spread to the kidneys and cause all sorts of problems. (Never fear, Mom, I've got a doctor's appointment first thing Monday morning and will get the proper medication!)
I would not claim to have 'the constitution of an ox,' as my friend Lauren describes herself and her Herculean ability to ward off the germs of a roomful of first graders year after year, and am somewhat prone to headaches and colds, but in the grander scheme of things I know these complaints are small. I have not needed antibiotics since the spring of 1986 and I find it slightly unnerving to need them now.
What I remember most, if fuzzily, about that last course of antibiotics is actually the year leading up to that spring of 1996. What I remember is being sick. On-goingly sick, spending the better part of an entire summer on the west coast in a haze, dazed and burning or vomiting and chilled to the bone. I remember shaking with cold, in the midst of a hot July, in the loft at my grandmother's house in central Washington. I remember shivering in the August sun at the end of the dock at my grandparents' cabin, huddled in a towel and miserable while all the cousins went swimming and water-skiing and motor-boating around the lake. I remember being dropped into a large inner tube in that cold cold lake water, my parents and grandparents on the verge of panic as my temperature crawled upwards of 104 degrees in that cabin on Lake Coeur d'Alene, an hour's drive from the nearest hospital.
I remember finally (and to everyone's relief) being diagnosed that September with nothing more than a particularly virulent (and atypical, given the complete lack of sore throat) form of strep throat. I remember spending much of the following year dutifully taking my penicillin, camouflaged disgustingly in a bright pink cherry-flavored viscous liquid, being healthy for a few weeks, and then getting sick again.
And I remember the fevers. And the fever dreams.
I remember hours (days?) spent lying in bed convinced that my ankles and wrists were pressing up against miles and miles of concrete; that I was swimming through lagoons filled with garbage; that snow fell constantly down on me from all those white ceilings. I remember sitting hunched in the armchair at the head of our dining room table, wrapped in a much-loved pink and green crocheted blanket and trying to drink lemon tea with honey, crying because my arms, gone all elastic-y and long, kept escaping my control and tangling, Gumby-like, in terrifying pretzel-like knots.
I remember those out-of-control knots, that garbage, the concrete and snow, with a certain marked dread, and also a certain relief that they are just far-flung disturbances, rising up out of long-ago childhood fevers.
After nearly nine months of antibiotics and nearly a full year of getting sick every few weeks, my doctor finally decided to take out my tonsils. I haven't had strep throat, or any other infection or illness requiring antibiotics, since.
The antibiotics I will get in two days' time will, I have no doubt, remedy this infection of mine right quick. And yet there is a lingering dread, an ever-present if subtle distrust, in the medical establishment, in the resiliency of my own generally healthy body, perhaps even of bodies in general. I was complaining to a friend earlier this evening about having to (oh the horror) visit the doctor on Monday and he said if it was him he'd probably forgo doctors, diagnosis, and medication, and just hope he didn't die. There is a certain blase comfort in this attitude, a certain faith in one's own survival, that I kind of wish I had.
I would not claim to have 'the constitution of an ox,' as my friend Lauren describes herself and her Herculean ability to ward off the germs of a roomful of first graders year after year, and am somewhat prone to headaches and colds, but in the grander scheme of things I know these complaints are small. I have not needed antibiotics since the spring of 1986 and I find it slightly unnerving to need them now.
What I remember most, if fuzzily, about that last course of antibiotics is actually the year leading up to that spring of 1996. What I remember is being sick. On-goingly sick, spending the better part of an entire summer on the west coast in a haze, dazed and burning or vomiting and chilled to the bone. I remember shaking with cold, in the midst of a hot July, in the loft at my grandmother's house in central Washington. I remember shivering in the August sun at the end of the dock at my grandparents' cabin, huddled in a towel and miserable while all the cousins went swimming and water-skiing and motor-boating around the lake. I remember being dropped into a large inner tube in that cold cold lake water, my parents and grandparents on the verge of panic as my temperature crawled upwards of 104 degrees in that cabin on Lake Coeur d'Alene, an hour's drive from the nearest hospital.
I remember finally (and to everyone's relief) being diagnosed that September with nothing more than a particularly virulent (and atypical, given the complete lack of sore throat) form of strep throat. I remember spending much of the following year dutifully taking my penicillin, camouflaged disgustingly in a bright pink cherry-flavored viscous liquid, being healthy for a few weeks, and then getting sick again.
And I remember the fevers. And the fever dreams.
I remember hours (days?) spent lying in bed convinced that my ankles and wrists were pressing up against miles and miles of concrete; that I was swimming through lagoons filled with garbage; that snow fell constantly down on me from all those white ceilings. I remember sitting hunched in the armchair at the head of our dining room table, wrapped in a much-loved pink and green crocheted blanket and trying to drink lemon tea with honey, crying because my arms, gone all elastic-y and long, kept escaping my control and tangling, Gumby-like, in terrifying pretzel-like knots.
I remember those out-of-control knots, that garbage, the concrete and snow, with a certain marked dread, and also a certain relief that they are just far-flung disturbances, rising up out of long-ago childhood fevers.
After nearly nine months of antibiotics and nearly a full year of getting sick every few weeks, my doctor finally decided to take out my tonsils. I haven't had strep throat, or any other infection or illness requiring antibiotics, since.
The antibiotics I will get in two days' time will, I have no doubt, remedy this infection of mine right quick. And yet there is a lingering dread, an ever-present if subtle distrust, in the medical establishment, in the resiliency of my own generally healthy body, perhaps even of bodies in general. I was complaining to a friend earlier this evening about having to (oh the horror) visit the doctor on Monday and he said if it was him he'd probably forgo doctors, diagnosis, and medication, and just hope he didn't die. There is a certain blase comfort in this attitude, a certain faith in one's own survival, that I kind of wish I had.
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