Friday, August 10, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
where i've been wasting my time today
Yet another harry
Freakonomics the blog: I recently, finally, got around to reading Freakonomics the book, which Chris gave me for Christmas or for my birthday or something or other a few years back. I was thrilled to see that one of the chapters, about why so many crack dealers live at home with their mothers, focused on the research of one Sudhir Venkatesh, once a graduate student at University of Chicago and now a Columbia faculty member for whom we have provided reserves readings. Yay.
The world clock, courtesy of Richard
A tornado hit Brooklyn this morning. Seriously. And apparently the morning commute was hell. It took one of my staff members over five hours to get to work. That's commitment.
Freakonomics the blog: I recently, finally, got around to reading Freakonomics the book, which Chris gave me for Christmas or for my birthday or something or other a few years back. I was thrilled to see that one of the chapters, about why so many crack dealers live at home with their mothers, focused on the research of one Sudhir Venkatesh, once a graduate student at University of Chicago and now a Columbia faculty member for whom we have provided reserves readings. Yay.
The world clock, courtesy of Richard
A tornado hit Brooklyn this morning. Seriously. And apparently the morning commute was hell. It took one of my staff members over five hours to get to work. That's commitment.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
follow-up to anonymity
This morning the deli man refused to take my dollar bill, three nickels, and a dime. When I tried to insist, he said that everyone deserves a free coffee now and then. I accepted gratefully and dashed right back up the stairs.
I do so love this city.
I do so love this city.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
of bombs & abortion
According to some of our elected leaders, it's a good idea to threaten to bomb important Muslim holy sites, like Mecca and Medina, as a deterrent to Muslim extremists bombing us. When in doubt, escalate. This seems to me not all that different from suggesting that we pro-choicers should threaten to blow up the Vatican just because a few pro-life extremists would like to blow up abortion clinics.
Which brings me to my second topic of the day, and not the first time mentioned on this blog, nor probably unfortunately the last. Abortion. As in, who gets to decide. As in, Ohio Representative John Adams and his proposed legislation that would bring potential fathers into the decision-making process. Representative Adams has decided that men should have more of a say in determining whether a pregnancy should end in abortion or not. As he explains, "This is important because there are always two parents and fathers should have a say in the birth or the destruction of that child."
I have no problem with this, on its surface, because in an ideal world, women and their partners would be making this difficult decision together.
But in the real world, of course, this is often not the case.
And in Adams' bizarre and twisted world, men should not be given more of a say, but rather should have the only say. In Adams' world, women would basically need permission slips from the fathers of their fetuses in order to obtain an abortion. The bill itself lists all the possibilities that would be forbidden, i.e. the woman cannot lie about the identity of the father, the woman cannot claim the pregnancy is the result of rape or incest without submitting court or police documents attesting to the rape or incest, the woman cannot claim that she does not know the identity of the father but must submit a list of her sexual partners in order for paternity tests to be performed, etc. But the clincher, the main point of the whole bill, is this:
When the fetus that is the subject of the procedure is viable, no person shall perform or induce an abortion on a pregnant woman without the written informed consent of the father of the fetus.
Didn't we already deal with this concept when the Supreme Court shot down spousal notification restrictions in Planned Parenthood v. Casey fifteen years ago? If women don't need to inform their husbands, how in the world is it feasible to even imagine requiring them to get permission from a one-night stand?
To quote the text-messaging generation, wtf?!?
Which brings me to my second topic of the day, and not the first time mentioned on this blog, nor probably unfortunately the last. Abortion. As in, who gets to decide. As in, Ohio Representative John Adams and his proposed legislation that would bring potential fathers into the decision-making process. Representative Adams has decided that men should have more of a say in determining whether a pregnancy should end in abortion or not. As he explains, "This is important because there are always two parents and fathers should have a say in the birth or the destruction of that child."
I have no problem with this, on its surface, because in an ideal world, women and their partners would be making this difficult decision together.
But in the real world, of course, this is often not the case.
And in Adams' bizarre and twisted world, men should not be given more of a say, but rather should have the only say. In Adams' world, women would basically need permission slips from the fathers of their fetuses in order to obtain an abortion. The bill itself lists all the possibilities that would be forbidden, i.e. the woman cannot lie about the identity of the father, the woman cannot claim the pregnancy is the result of rape or incest without submitting court or police documents attesting to the rape or incest, the woman cannot claim that she does not know the identity of the father but must submit a list of her sexual partners in order for paternity tests to be performed, etc. But the clincher, the main point of the whole bill, is this:
When the fetus that is the subject of the procedure is viable, no person shall perform or induce an abortion on a pregnant woman without the written informed consent of the father of the fetus.
Didn't we already deal with this concept when the Supreme Court shot down spousal notification restrictions in Planned Parenthood v. Casey fifteen years ago? If women don't need to inform their husbands, how in the world is it feasible to even imagine requiring them to get permission from a one-night stand?
To quote the text-messaging generation, wtf?!?
Thursday, August 02, 2007
strange
It's a strange, strange world, this virtual world, when you read about the demise and fallout of your own relationship on someone else's blog. Thanks for the sweet words, Maia. And for being such an excellent neighbor and friend. I'm very much looking forward to seeing you next week. As long as Ilke's not along for the ride. She'd probably eat Nova in lieu of milkbones for breakfast and that would make me sad.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
happy anniversary...
...to the Edwardses, whom I find it difficult not to adore.
Also, a certain young man is finally, finally in the process of moving his stuff out of our-now-my apartment, after six months. It's been a difficult couple of days, but will hopefully be finished by the end of this week. Somehow neither of us had realized quite how much stuff he had here still, hidden in closets, in cupboards, under the bed, or in the guise of being 'our' book and music collections. Books, clothes, bass guitar, paintings, framed posters, his entire and vast CD collection, kitchen stuff, architecture school stuff, etc. He's gone for today, on his way out to New Haven in what I can only imagine to be the beginning of rush hour hell, and I've poured myself a drink. Maker's Mark on the rocks, to keep me company until Lauren's arrival. We were planning to watch cheesy TV together, but I might put her to work first helping me dust off the bookshelves and rearranging my books and CDs so that Chris can take one of the CD racks and a couple bookshelves with him next time he comes 'round. What I had once considered our CD collection has been vastly depleted these last two days. Somehow, over the years, Chris bought most of our CDs and I bought most of our wine. The wine of course has all been drunk and, given my rather limited economic resources, not soon to be replenished. And the CDs are now boxed up and on their way to Yale. The book collection was much more easily divided, having both bought our own books over the years, though I found it hard to watch him box up the books I had given to him, loving inscriptions and all. Ahhh, perhaps finally, once this home of mine is filled with only my things and empty of his, I can really and truly begin to move on from this ridiculously drawn-out ending to a long, emotionally fraught, if often wonderful, relationship. And I've got grandiose plans of making Lauren and Arielle, and possibly Justin, Erica, and Freddy help me paint some of these big, now empty, white walls a more interesting color, now that Chris and his antipathy to non-white walls have finally left the building.
Also, a certain young man is finally, finally in the process of moving his stuff out of our-now-my apartment, after six months. It's been a difficult couple of days, but will hopefully be finished by the end of this week. Somehow neither of us had realized quite how much stuff he had here still, hidden in closets, in cupboards, under the bed, or in the guise of being 'our' book and music collections. Books, clothes, bass guitar, paintings, framed posters, his entire and vast CD collection, kitchen stuff, architecture school stuff, etc. He's gone for today, on his way out to New Haven in what I can only imagine to be the beginning of rush hour hell, and I've poured myself a drink. Maker's Mark on the rocks, to keep me company until Lauren's arrival. We were planning to watch cheesy TV together, but I might put her to work first helping me dust off the bookshelves and rearranging my books and CDs so that Chris can take one of the CD racks and a couple bookshelves with him next time he comes 'round. What I had once considered our CD collection has been vastly depleted these last two days. Somehow, over the years, Chris bought most of our CDs and I bought most of our wine. The wine of course has all been drunk and, given my rather limited economic resources, not soon to be replenished. And the CDs are now boxed up and on their way to Yale. The book collection was much more easily divided, having both bought our own books over the years, though I found it hard to watch him box up the books I had given to him, loving inscriptions and all. Ahhh, perhaps finally, once this home of mine is filled with only my things and empty of his, I can really and truly begin to move on from this ridiculously drawn-out ending to a long, emotionally fraught, if often wonderful, relationship. And I've got grandiose plans of making Lauren and Arielle, and possibly Justin, Erica, and Freddy help me paint some of these big, now empty, white walls a more interesting color, now that Chris and his antipathy to non-white walls have finally left the building.
a politician of a different stripe
I know Elliot Spitzer's taking a bit of a beating these days, but I still have an enormous amount of respect for the man, not least of which was his public apology in the New York Times the other day. As one reader put it:
"Am I dreaming, or did a politician actually say, “We made mistakes” instead of “Mistakes were made?" Thank you, Gov. Spitzer, for your honesty, your willingness to apologize, and your rejection of the passive weaseled voice!"
"Am I dreaming, or did a politician actually say, “We made mistakes” instead of “Mistakes were made?" Thank you, Gov. Spitzer, for your honesty, your willingness to apologize, and your rejection of the passive weaseled voice!"
I know Spitzer came in to office with a big head, a lot of big ideas, and a real mandate (almost 70% of the vote, I believe, as opposed to Bush's close win in 2004, also deemed a mandate by some), and I know some people have been disappointed in his lack of results. But I think he just needs to learn to play the game a little bit better. Spitzer's not a born politician, and this is undoubtedly to his credit. But he needs to overcome his self-righteousness and learn to play well with others. Or at least not beat them over the head and try to steal ALL of their toys. And he will. And then he'll start to accomplish great things up there in Albany.
movies i really, really want to see
macbeth, reimagined in Melbourne gangland
the golden compass, in anticipation of which I am currently rereading the whole trilogy
gowanus, brooklyn, the short film written by a Columbia grad that grew in to Half Nelson
wristcutters, a love story
the golden compass, in anticipation of which I am currently rereading the whole trilogy
gowanus, brooklyn, the short film written by a Columbia grad that grew in to Half Nelson
wristcutters, a love story
Sunday, July 29, 2007
gazpacho
Chris and I used to make gazpacho together in our first apartment, or rather my first apartment -- a little tiny ground-floor studio caught between two air shafts half a block south of the George Washington Bridge. I'd of course lived in other places before, but this was the first place I had to myself, at least for those few months until Chris graduated, moved out of his dorm and in with me. It was a tight squeeze, that studio and two people and a cat, but we were happy there in "the cave," and loved cooking together. Or, in all honesty, I loved watching Chris cook, and I didn't mind chopping or slicing or dicing what ever it was he needed to throw in next. I knew next to nothing about cooking, other than my ever practical and infamous meringue cookies and gingerbread cake. We only lived there from May through November, perfect gazpacho-making season. Watching all those different colors, those different tiny diced vegetables, piling up in our big stockpot, was strangely one of my favorite things. The bright, juicy red of the tomatoes and red peppers, the green of the cucumbers and green peppers and jalapeno, the purple of the red onion, the orange of the carrots. The pungent smell of raw garlic and scallions. The slick of good olive oil and balsamic vinegar smeared across the top. We continued to make gazpacho every summer, sometimes well in to the fall. We bought a blender, and contrary to many other mysteriously acquired kitchen appliances, quite often used it. One year we made several quarts (meaning, probably, close to three gallons, in one of our 12-quart stockpots) of gazpacho for a big summer birthday party. I was confused that, despite people's seeming enthusiasm for this dish, it didn't seem to be disappearing particularly quickly. Then I took a closer look at our guests' mode of consumption, and realized that somehow it had gone undetected that this was a soup (despite the stack of bowls and the ladle and the mug-full of spoons) and people instead were dipping their tortilla chips in the stockpot. Best salsa they'd ever had, or so I was told.
Anyway, to finally get to my point, I made a pot of gazpacho last weekend. This was my first time making it on my own, sans Chris's expertise and direction. It turned out relatively well, and both Mako and Dan seemed to enjoy it. Next time, though, more jalapeno.
Gazpacho:
6-8 largish ripe tomatoes
a red onion
a couple handfuls of baby carrots
a red pepper
a green pepper
a cucumber
a couple cloves of garlic
part of a jalapeno pepper
most of a 48-oz. bottle of V8 juice
balsamic vinegar
good olive oil
salt & pepper
Tabasco (or other hot) sauce
Chop all of the vegetables as small as you can stand without going stark raving mad. Also of course seed the peppers and cucumber. Dump 'em in a pot. Add V8 juice. Mix 'em all up. Transfer about half to a blender and blend until relatively smooth, and then transfer back to the soup pot. Add a few tablespoons worth of olive oil and vinegar. Salt and pepper to taste. Refrigerate, preferably for a few hours. When it's good and cold, taste again and add a little more olive oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper if necessary. Serve, with Tabasco on the side.
Chris used to sometimes make up a mixture of diced avocado, red onion, salt, pepper, cilantro and jalapeno to serve on top of the gazpacho. This was really tasty. Also, every now and then, we would add some watermelon to the soup, some to be blended and some to be diced, which added a delicious sweet crispiness to the proceedings.
I served this last weekend with a baguette, sliced, with mozzarella, and broiled on the top rack of the oven until the bread was toasted and the mozzarella was melted and bubbling and slightly golden. You could add bits of garlic and fresh basil leaves to the toasts, if you have them on hand. I didn't, as my basil plant died last summer and I have yet to buy another one. Though my supposedly mint eggling has a striking resemblance to basil, despite the sticker on the box. Also with a bowl of Japanese wasabi rice crackers. And a New Zealand sauvignon blanc.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
gone fishin'
Noodling. This apparently is a preferred method for catching catfish, at least in some parts. It's also illegal in most parts, at least in the United States. And seems kinda wacky to me. It involves going in to a river, looking for holes or hollowed out logs, and sticking your hand in, hoping to grab a catfish.
We used to fish for catfish off the end of the dock in Idaho, with old bamboo fishing poles and little red and white bobbers. It fell to Grandma Mac to clean those suckers, and catfish are not easy to clean. Unlike most fish, they've got skin instead of scales, and that skin has to be peeled off. With pliers. They also bite. And have whisker-like things that can sometimes cut or sting. They also flop around a lot, even after being skinned, decapitated, and filleted. Sometimes even after being skinned, decapitated, filleted, and soaked in milk in a bowl in the fridge over night in preparation for beer-batter catfish pancakes for breakfast the next morning.
Catfish are pretty amazing creatures. Some of them are pretty small, and popular for their vast bottom-feeding, scum-cleaning routines in aquariums. Some of them are albino. Some of them think they're zebras. Some of them prefer to be upside down. And some of them are really, really big.
We used to fish for catfish off the end of the dock in Idaho, with old bamboo fishing poles and little red and white bobbers. It fell to Grandma Mac to clean those suckers, and catfish are not easy to clean. Unlike most fish, they've got skin instead of scales, and that skin has to be peeled off. With pliers. They also bite. And have whisker-like things that can sometimes cut or sting. They also flop around a lot, even after being skinned, decapitated, and filleted. Sometimes even after being skinned, decapitated, filleted, and soaked in milk in a bowl in the fridge over night in preparation for beer-batter catfish pancakes for breakfast the next morning.
Catfish are pretty amazing creatures. Some of them are pretty small, and popular for their vast bottom-feeding, scum-cleaning routines in aquariums. Some of them are albino. Some of them think they're zebras. Some of them prefer to be upside down. And some of them are really, really big.
Friday, July 27, 2007
of the day
quote of the day:
"There's a good reason they are called 'Al Qaeda in Iraq.' They are Al Qaeda. And they are in Iraq." - our illustrious leader
song of the day:
Accio Deathly Hallows
"There's a good reason they are called 'Al Qaeda in Iraq.' They are Al Qaeda. And they are in Iraq." - our illustrious leader
song of the day:
Accio Deathly Hallows
comeback of the day:
Leonard Nimoy will be appearing in the new Star Trek movie. As some of you may or may not know, I had a thing for Spock back in the day. Way, way back in the day. It must've been those sexy Vulcan ears and that green Vulcan blood. Spock's younger self will apparently be played by one of those more modern Heroes, Zachary Quinto.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
anonymity, or, when the deli man knows your name
I've been stopping by Hamilton Deli for my morning coffee before heading in to the library at least two or three times a week for a couple years now. The guys who work the counter at the deli are all friendly, the coffee is decent, and if you arrive well before the first Columbia class session starts, you can get in and out in under a minute.
One deli guy in particular started paying a little more attention to me this past January. I think this is because I rather abruptly started to look like a stereotypical broken-hearted, thwarted in love, wreck of a woman. I was not eating well, and not sleeping. My eyes brimmed with tears as often as not, my nose was rubbed raw, my lips chapped to the point of bleeding. My voice tended to sink back into my winter layers, absorbed to the point of non-existence by my wool coat, wooly scarves, winter hats, chain smoking, and the cold.
This particular man started greeting me at the register with a kindly, almost concerned, expression on his face. He began remembering how I like my coffee, would ring up my $1.25 almost before I came through the door. He never said much more than a polite good morning, if that. Often enough it was just a smile that passed between us, thin and wavering on my part, warm and encouraging on his.
The months passed, though, and my voice has long since returned. The layers of dark, heavy wool have been relegated to the closet. I can sleep through the night now, and have regained my normal hardy appetite. And I imagine this man has watched the spring return to my steps, the color return to my cheeks, replacing the wintery, sleep-deprived pallor. He has, now and then, begun to ask if I would like anything else with my coffee, but I never do, and this is the extent to which our conversation had grown. Until Tuesday morning, that is.
I was in a particularly good mood that morning, I'm not sure why, and I practically skipped down the four steps and in the door to the deli, grinned broadly at my favorite deli counter guy, handed over my dollar bill, two dimes, and a nickel, and trilled out my good morning. He took my money, paused, and then said, "Can I ask you a question?" I paused in turn, mouth agape, and finally said, "Sure, I guess." He said, "I would like to ask your name." I told him. He said, "Emily, it's lovely to meet you." I asked him his name, which I have mortifyingly forgotten, said it was nice to meet him too. And fled out the door.
My favorite deli guy, my quiet knight in shining armor who so steadfastly helped me through those long winter months with your sweet smile of encouragement, your subtle understanding, your careful distance, what have you done? All this time I have felt buoyed by your early morning presence, have taken comfort that someone outside the confines of my narrow life might notice if I disappeared, or at least missed too many morning coffees. And yet now a wall has been breached, an understanding has been broken. My beloved New York City friendly anonymity has been lost.
Yesterday I went back to Hamilton Deli on my way to the library, and my deli guy greeted me with a, "Good morning, Emily!" And then a, "Thank you, Emily!" Very friendly, very sweet. Very, very disconcerting.
This morning I went to the coffee cart on 116th & Broadway. The guy there always puts too much sugar in my coffee, and their napkins are too small to protect my fingers from being burned on the hot cup as I cross campus to work. I have to get over my irrational fear of this loss of anonymity, and move on, and go back to my favorite morning coffee spot.
One deli guy in particular started paying a little more attention to me this past January. I think this is because I rather abruptly started to look like a stereotypical broken-hearted, thwarted in love, wreck of a woman. I was not eating well, and not sleeping. My eyes brimmed with tears as often as not, my nose was rubbed raw, my lips chapped to the point of bleeding. My voice tended to sink back into my winter layers, absorbed to the point of non-existence by my wool coat, wooly scarves, winter hats, chain smoking, and the cold.
This particular man started greeting me at the register with a kindly, almost concerned, expression on his face. He began remembering how I like my coffee, would ring up my $1.25 almost before I came through the door. He never said much more than a polite good morning, if that. Often enough it was just a smile that passed between us, thin and wavering on my part, warm and encouraging on his.
The months passed, though, and my voice has long since returned. The layers of dark, heavy wool have been relegated to the closet. I can sleep through the night now, and have regained my normal hardy appetite. And I imagine this man has watched the spring return to my steps, the color return to my cheeks, replacing the wintery, sleep-deprived pallor. He has, now and then, begun to ask if I would like anything else with my coffee, but I never do, and this is the extent to which our conversation had grown. Until Tuesday morning, that is.
I was in a particularly good mood that morning, I'm not sure why, and I practically skipped down the four steps and in the door to the deli, grinned broadly at my favorite deli counter guy, handed over my dollar bill, two dimes, and a nickel, and trilled out my good morning. He took my money, paused, and then said, "Can I ask you a question?" I paused in turn, mouth agape, and finally said, "Sure, I guess." He said, "I would like to ask your name." I told him. He said, "Emily, it's lovely to meet you." I asked him his name, which I have mortifyingly forgotten, said it was nice to meet him too. And fled out the door.
My favorite deli guy, my quiet knight in shining armor who so steadfastly helped me through those long winter months with your sweet smile of encouragement, your subtle understanding, your careful distance, what have you done? All this time I have felt buoyed by your early morning presence, have taken comfort that someone outside the confines of my narrow life might notice if I disappeared, or at least missed too many morning coffees. And yet now a wall has been breached, an understanding has been broken. My beloved New York City friendly anonymity has been lost.
Yesterday I went back to Hamilton Deli on my way to the library, and my deli guy greeted me with a, "Good morning, Emily!" And then a, "Thank you, Emily!" Very friendly, very sweet. Very, very disconcerting.
This morning I went to the coffee cart on 116th & Broadway. The guy there always puts too much sugar in my coffee, and their napkins are too small to protect my fingers from being burned on the hot cup as I cross campus to work. I have to get over my irrational fear of this loss of anonymity, and move on, and go back to my favorite morning coffee spot.
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