Accismus

Venice has its first ever female gondolier!

Way back in college, when I visited Venice during my summer abroad in Italy, I asked my gondolier if there were any women gondoliers, and he laughed at me, and explained that, though there are often women who try out to be gondoliers, it’s not really a job they can do, because it takes so much upper body strength to shunt the gondolas under the bridges and so forth, and none of them are ever able to pass the tests. Since then, I’ve frequently made jokes about being an aspiring gondolier – I don’t know why, but the conversation just stuck in my head.

Way to go, Boscolo! This makes me really happy. (Even though Venice is sinking, so it’ll soon be a moot point anyway.)

With all apologies to Louis C.K., I am now going to whine about my lastest flying experience, home from Knoxville, Tennessee several weeks ago.

My flight was at 1pm, but I was coming from camping in the mountains and we didn’t know how long it would take to get to the airport, so we left a big window and I got there at about 11:30am. I checked my bag (which cost me $15). It was the first time in ages I’d had a checked bag (ever since one of my bags was destroyed being drug by its strap behind a baggage cart, and I had to collect each of my underthings and toiletries as they drifted – alone, mauled and covered in tar – around the baggage carousel in front of scads of strangers, I’ve avoided checking bags if I can help it), and as I was flying into Newark, I was nervous about lugging my big, heavy suitcase, and my packed duffel full of library books back from the Newark airport.

I was sitting at the gate at 11:45. My flight was supposed to be at 1:15, but naturally, it was delayed until 2:30. I began to smell trouble. The flight kept getting delayed, and I felt really helpless, because every person I knew in Tennessee was camping in the mountains out of cell phone range, so I wouldn’t even be able to reach them. Suddenly, every cell in my body screamed that it absolutely did not want to be in that airport, with a broken-out face and no make-up and five days of not having had a bath (except for a brief, ineffectual Dr. Bronner’s rubdown), wearing a dirty T-shirt and my mother’s jeans, which were way too big and also way, way too heavy for the weather. And I realized that there was not one thing I could do about it. If I wanted to get home (and I had to be there by Monday at least), I had to rely on this airline. I was entirely impotent. I was a prisoner of USAir.

Finally, we boarded, and the plane went out on the runway, and then sat there for half an hour. The air conditioner was broken, and the couple behind me were big, fat, loud Yankees who kept reaching up to grab at my air conditioning nozzles and scoff at me for not being overheated. The flight attendant was really nice, though, and explained that I would almost certainly miss my 4:11 connection when we got to Philly. Actually, I was glad – I figured I could switch my flight for one into LaGuardia, and then I wouldn’t have to deal with the bus and the subway. I could just hop in a cab and go home, although inevitably the cabbie would lie about knowing where my street was and then leave the meter running while he chased down pedestrians for directions, like always.

We finally did get to Philly, and it turned out all the flights out had been delayed so long I had not in fact missed my connection. I went to my gate (further down the terminal), and asked a bored young woman at the podium if I could get on something to LaGuardia. She said the only flight out to LaGuardia was currently set to leave at 9:00pm. Then she got on the speaker and announced that the 4:11 flight was further delayed, from 5:30 to 6:30. Everyone grumbled and cussed. I sat for a minute, then went to ask if there were any flights on other airlines to LaGuardia. She said I’d need to go to Special Services, which was down and past the food court. I walked all the way over there (down one long leg of terminal and then another). I saw a long line of people at one gate.  I knew that was probably my line; still, I hopefully asked a nearby worker where Special Services was.

‘See that long, long line right there?’ she asked, amused. ‘That’s it.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘You resemble Chelsea!’

‘What?’

‘Chelsea! Anyone ever told you that? You look like her a little bit.’

‘Chelsea…Clinton?’

‘Yeah! You favor her!’

‘…Thanks,’ I muttered and joined the Special Services line. I stood there and stood there, and it creeped along. I had many options. I tried to think…if I could get my suitcase back, I could take a bus straight from the Philly airport to New York, or a train to Penn Station, assuming there was an easy way to get to the Philly train station from the airport. I wondered if I could get the airline to pay for my train ticket. But perhaps I couldn’t get my bag back. The ideal thing would be to fly into LaGuardia. In fact, I so preferred it, I might take an 8pm flight there over a 6pm flight to Newark. But then I realized that, until I was able to talk to somebody, my bag would be put on the Newark plane, and if it left without me, I’d have no way to get my luggage. I’d probably have to actually make a full trip to Newark to get it, which would suck. I cursed baggage on all levels; I’m not normally prisoner to possessions. I’d have just ditched my clothes, but I’d stored half of my library books in my suitcase. Plus, my glasses were in there.

I started to get nervous about my flight leaving. But it wasn’t supposed to leave until 6:30. They wouldn’t move it up, would they? No one was going anywhere. Finally, I asked the guy behind me if he cared if I ran to check the flight monitors really quickly, and he said no. When I looked for my flight, it said it was leaving at 6:00pm. I looked at my phone – it was 6:03. I full out ran back down the two terminal legs to my gate. The area was empty, the door shut, the bored young woman just turning from it. ‘Noooo,’ I thought. My suitcase was lost. But then suddenly, the bored young woman began gesturing to another airport worker who was running two young girls up to her. ‘This them?’ she said. ‘Newark? Well, come on.’ And she opened the door again.

‘I’m on that flight, too!’ I cried and ran out with them. They were from New Zealand and had some trouble figuring out the gate or something. We all got on board. One of them sat behind me and shoved her knees into my back the whole way. I sat next to a wiry old Asian man, which was great, since he had no body fat and didn’t go apeshit when once again, we were stopped on the runway for 30 minutes with no air conditioning. I noticed, however, that someone smelled absolutely rank, and then realized it was probably me.

I was scheduled to get to Newark at 5:00pm. I got there at 8:00. I retrieved my suitcase, and walked down to the bus terminal, surrendered my suitcase and got on the lovely air-conditioned bus. I was so glad to be out of the airport. I noticed that these buses stop at Grand Central after Port Authority, and decided to get off there – I could get a cab home cheaper and easier and wouldn’t have to get out in the blaring, horrid armpit that is 42nd Street, especially on a Sat. night and with a lot of unwieldy baggage.

This proved an ideal plan. The entire Grand Central area was deserted, and I immediately flagged a cab that furthermore was one of those big van cabs, so I could take my suitcase right in with me. The cabbie was good and didn’t take me for a run-around, and the cab ride was less than $20, and Oh, My God, I have never been so luxuriously thrilled to see my apartment.

I entered it like Odysseus coming home (in attitude, I mean – I didn’t enter in disguise and slay a bunch of suitors in the foyer), and immediately saw that my roommate had managed to hook our television up to the cable cord, so we still got channels, which we’d expected to loose, as the transition to digital had happened on the week we were away, and we had nothing in the way of a transition box. I collapsed onto the couch and flipped through the channels, and I ordered sushi for delivery – an insane amount of expensive sushi, and beer. I took a long, long, hot shower, and then slept and slept and slept. It was pretty awesome.

After my Bonnaroo adventure, I spent a week camping with my family in The Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  One night, two deer came right up to our campsite.  I took a bunch of terrible pictures of them (between the low light and the campfire smoke, they looked more like disembodied eyeballs in amongst the trees), but this one isn’t too bad.  There are two of them there, just above the kids’ heads:

Can you see them?

Around midnight on Wednesday, June 10th, just past the Tennessee border at Bristol, a stopped line of cars stretched over the horizon line. But this stopped traffic jam differed from most: in amongst the impassive truckers, the drivers and passengers of these stopped cars were partying. They were also nearly all in their 20s, dressed in ragged, summer clothes. Their cars had license tags from across the 50 states. Though none of them knew each other, they wandered in and out of the stopped traffic, laughing, shaking hands, sharing cigarettes. Car stereos were cranked, beers were cracked, kids danced in the median, in the emergency lane, on the roofs of their own cars. An unknowing observer might think this midnight traffic jam was the best, most hilarious thing these strange motorists had ever seen. What could explain this peculiar occurrence (and why would so many people, for that matter, be traveling into Eastern Tennessee)?

One word:  Bonnaroo.

These motorists were all Bonnaroo attendees, Phishheads and hipsters on their way to Manchester, still a good six hours’ drive South. At 7:00am the next morning, the campsites would open and all of these kids would be there. For them, the party had already started, right here on I-40 behind a tipped semi in the middle of the night. And me, my roommate, Sara, and her boyfriend, Chris, were right there in the midst of them.

I am not the sort of person to attend a music festival. In fact, I am the sort of person to go to some trouble to avoid attending a music festival. In the case of Bonnaroo, however, I had every reason to go. My good friend Emily lives in Manchester, Tennessee, and was able to get the three of us free tickets, and offered to put us up in her house. We would not have to camp in the crowded campsites, or wait in any of the myriad long entry lines. My roommate’s boyfriend, Chris, is the sort of person who would go to a great deal of trouble to attend a music festival, particularly Bonnaroo, and my roommate, Sara, is the sort of person who would happily go to a music festival if other people were going, and I am the sort of person who will join my friends for an adventure especially if it doesn’t cost me anything and everybody else takes care of all the arrangements, so there you go. My four-day Bonnaroo adventure had begun.

[Incidentally, if I may digress for a minute, Sara and Chris are from upstate New York and Long Island respectively. Neither had spent any substantial time in the American South (Florida doesn't count), and had never been to Tennessee at all. The first thing they pointed out, as we drove the rather isolated stretch of road from the interstate to my parents' house, was the sheer number of churches we were passing. This would prove to be a theme throughout our trip. I had known I'd grown up in the Bible belt, but not until it had been pointed out to me with fresh eyes was I sufficiently impressed by the sheer volume of churches on every block in Tennessee. There are thousands of them: Baptist, Methodist, Adventist, Presbyterian, Evangelical, Echolalian, Pentecostal, Church of Christ, Church of God, Church of Jesus (plus a spicing of Catholic, Mormon, Lutheran) -- not to mention all the Firsts, Seconds, Thirds, Southerns, Orthodoxes, Reforms, 2nd Days, 7th Days, Juniors, Once-removeds and so on and so forth splinterings of each of these. The South is indeed incredibly diverse in its offerings of traditional, white Protestant churches. If you were to do a church crawl, you'd be passed out on grape juice and oyster crackers before you'd made it out of your own neighborhood.  End of digression.]

Thursday

As we approached the tiny town of Manchester, we saw a policeman with a sign directing Bonnaroo traffic to the shoulder. Obediently, we queued up in a long line of cars stopped there. I phoned my friend to see if this was really necessary, and she directed us to continue on several more exits. As we drove to the exit where she’d said she’d meet us, we passed four other exits, each with a traffic barrier up, and at least a hundred cars stopped in a line behind it. These were festival attendees waiting to be admitted into the campgrounds. We felt very slick to drive past them all.

We met Emily in the parking lot of the Manchester Seniors’ Center, and she led us to her new house – an enormous three bedroom with two huge porches on five acres of land for the monthly rent of freaking nothing. Us New Yorkers wept.

‘Do you want to go see my new puppy?’ Emily asked me, while Sara and Chris got situated.

Emily has never been a dog person. She likes cats. We’ve had long debates verging on arguments about this, so I was surprised and delighted to hear a dog was in the offing. Her next door neighbors’ Boxer had mounted their Great Dane, and a litter of puppies resulted, and Emily had her pick of the four that were left. We went next door to look at them. There was shit all over the yard, and kibble all over the porch. The Great Dane was the size of a small pony, and very affectionate. The runt of the litter, Pee-Wee, and Freckles, a gray polka-dotted male, ran up to jump all over us. Two black puppies remained on the porch, one lying across the kibble pile, the other peering suspiciously at us. Emily was trying to make her mind up between Pee-Wee and Freckles. Her neighbor told her she had a day to decide, because they were taking them to Nashville on Saturday to try to sell them. Then, Freckles stepped in some shit and flung it around on us, so we left.

It was time to prep for Bonnaroo.  Emily took us all to the special tent where each of us was outfitted with a neon green and hot pink fabric wristband, and then Emily led us to a place we could park without having to wait in the insane line at the main gates. Sara and Chris wanted to go straight in to Bonnaroo, of course, but Emily needed to wait to meet up with her little brother and his friend, who were getting in later. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not really a concert goer, normally. I was moderately excited about seeing a few bands I actually had some familiarity with, but none of them were playing Thursday, so I decided to wade in rather than dive, and thus spent my first night at Bonnaroo with Emily, her boyfriend, Jason, her brother, Michael, and his friend, Jeff, drinking margaritas on the porch of a nice Mexican restaurant (strangely attached to a seedy strip motel) in Tullahoma. I don’t remember what was playing on the speakers, but I think it was a mariachi band.

Friday

Okay, Friday!  Bonnaroo day, for real this time.  I woke up with a will, slathered myself in sunscreen, put on my hat.  Sara and Chris were making bacon, eggs and toast for everyone (minus Emily, who’d had to go to work). My friends were pretty speedy that morning, anxious not to miss certain things at Bonnaroo, and the three of us were soon driving to the staff lot. Chris was working two nights at the festival (he shoots music events for a living, mostly), but hadn’t managed to get his staff wristband yet, for complicated reasons. He did have his parking pass, though, and hoped that would be enough. It wasn’t. An unsympathetic skater girl at the entrance flat denied us – everyone in the vehicle must have staff wristbands to enter the staff lot. We parked in the back field again, and hiked up through the fields and into the sprawling camp grounds.

Bonnaroo camping spreads for miles in every direction. No matter how crowded you imagine it might be, it is shockingly moreso. There were tents and RVs in every direction, with tarps arranged into impressive compounds, there were oily hippies everywhere, teenagers, middle-aged heavyset guys, trailer trash, hipsters, college kids, so on and so forth times a billion. Also, an unending supply of white boys with dreadlocks or Afros. We wound our way through the sprawling campsites, and at each turned corner, a new limitless vista of RV roofs and tent peaks and Porta-pots rolled out to meet the sky. Above it all were colored balloons with numbers to try to let you know where you were, and there were also street signs erected at intersections (1st and 2nd style, familiar to NYers), but none of this was really of much help. The ground was packed dirt and mud and the sun was bald and scalding.

Sara and Chris had gotten caught in a horrid downpour the night before. It began around midnight, and was accompanied by a fierce wind that drove sheets of rain into your eyes and blinded you. They’d had to fight their way back to the car; they’d thanked their stars they’d brought trash bags to wear. Bonnaroo is legendary for its storms, and nearly every year, it is a mudpit by the second day. You are advised to lose your shoes and get filthy, as it’s really impossible to walk otherwise. We got lucky, however: the Thursday night storm was the only one we’d see that weekend. Still, it was semi-muddy, and by the time we reached the main gate, I had flip-flop-flicked mud stripes up my calves.

When we reached the main gates, we glommed onto a mob of people that was slowly oozing its way through the checkpoints a good stretch ahead of us. The sun beat down, the crowd pressed around me. I began to think there was really no way I could do this. I thought I’d have to go back to Emily’s and stay there, and began to be amazed at my inability to make it through even the initial entrance to what was meant to be a four-day 24-hour marathon of fun. I was wearing a tank-style sundress with a bra-top tank top under it, and flip-flops, a half-bottle of SPF 55, and a small-brimmed sun hat, and sweat was pouring down the backs of my legs and puddling up in the dirt. I have this problem, especially in summers. Apparently, at least 95% of my body’s total sweat glands are located along the bottom curves of my butt cheeks. There’s no way to win with this, loose skirts and pants alike each presenting their own drawbacks. Sitting down, however, is worst of all. I need an antimacassar for my ass.

So, I was soaked, hyperventilating and claustrophobic (I tend to panic in crowds, which makes me extremely unsuited for things like living in New York City, and attending Bonnaroo), but I had committed to this experience, so there was nothing for it to remain upright until I passed out. Eventually, I got to the gate, where a youth glanced into my purse and waved me through.

It took me some time to get my bearings, but eventually, I determined that Bonnaroo is arranged in three complexes.

An eagle eye view of the grounds.

The main gate gave on to the field leading up to the main stage, What Stage, which is the biggest, and has the biggest field in front of it. To the right of mainstage is a long line of food vendors; along the back of the mainstage field is a long line of Porta-Pots and a misting tent; where these two lines intersect is entry into Centeroo. Centeroo has a mushroom fountain at its middle, which at sporadic times throughout the day, spouts a muddy font of water from its top for folk to bathe in.

The refreshing fountain.

There are more food vendors and Porta-pots, there’s stations for refilling water bottles, there are souvenir stands.

Food vendors.

To the left of Centeroo (if you’re facing it from What Stage) is Which Stage, the second biggest stage, with a medium-sized field in front of it. On past Which Stage and Centeroo, the Cinema Tent is off on its own a ways to the left, and then there are sort of two fields with This Tent and That Tent on opposite sides. In between these, there’s a little adobe hut serving as a Post Office, and the Comedy Barn, and these head back toward a relatively empty area that features a ferris wheel, a Silent Disco (where everyone dances with head phones), some sort of tent always playing metal, The Other Tent and a few picnic tables. Between This Tent and The Other Tent, there’s a big empty stretch with a lot of sculptures around – fireflies on long sticks whose butts light up, big egg things hanging from a tree, a cutout castle, a metal dragon, a giant metal snowman full of fire that can be ignited by jumping on him in the right way, and also in the midst of all this, a little burlesque stage off to the side.

Fireflies, with ferris wheel behind.

This is probably not a very clear or accurate description of the Bonnaroo grounds, but it is accurate in that all of this is sort of a hodgepodge of similar sites – tent, stage, Cajun food, funnel cake, line of Porta-pots, tent, Porta-pots, installation, frozen lemonade cart, repeat – and it’s too confusing and bothersome to orient oneself, really – I adopted the system of just wandering until I ran into wherever I was trying to be.

We first lined up at the back of the crowd in That Tent to see The Dirty Projectors. I had no familiarity with this band at all, I couldn’t see anything, and I have to hear something multiple times before it makes any lasting imprint in my mind, so I can’t really tell you anything about the band, other than that I liked them at the time (this shows you about how good a Bonnaroo correspondent I am going to be – Rolling Stone, here I come!). David Byrne came out and joined them for the final song, and I don’t remember that, either (mostly because I couldn’t see any of it). What I do recall was that when we first tacked ourselves on to the back of the crowd, we were maddeningly close to the shade cast by the tent, and I felt it was a matter of personal survival that I worm my way into that shade. Luckily, the crowd kept moving up by stages, as people left the tent for other acts, so before long, we were under the cover, and I felt a lot better about everything, despite still being packed firm as brown sugar.

The Dirty Projectors.

We caught about the last half hour of The Dirty Projectors show, and after that, Chris wanted to see the Don Hertzfeldt show at the Cinema Tent.

Don Hertzfeldt is the animator whose short, Rejected, was nominated for an Oscar awhile back. If you have not seen Rejected, google and watch it now – it’s great. Chris is a big fan, and played it Wednesday morning before we left, and I thought it was hilarious. Hertzfeldt is a master of Kafka-esque humor; his films are full of simple characters neutrally experiencing the myriad unpleasantnesses of life, plodding through repetitive banality, only to be blindsided by meaningless and inexplicable chaos and horror. Chris is such a Hertzfeldt fan, he was even wearing his Rejected T-shirt.

Incidentally, I feel like there’s some joke about how it’s lame to wear the T-shirt of the band you’re going to see to their concert, but I think now that this must be outdated humor – there were all kinds of people wearing T-shirts of the bands they were seeing at Bonnaroo, and I doubt these folks would fail to be hip. Of course, perhaps it’s now cool to wear the T-shirt of the band you’re going to see ironically. Or, maybe these people were attending the shows of other bands at the same time as the band on their T-shirt was playing! Wouldn’t that be hostile? (I don’t have any T-shirts with bands on them, but I do have one with David Bowie’s face on it.)

We headed over to the Cinema Tent, and Chris got in the short line, while Sara and I went to refill our water bottles. The line at the refilling station, however, wasn’t moving at all.

Long ass water line.

Eventually, we noticed various other lines forming perpendicular to the one we’d originally gotten on, so we gave up on the water bottles and went to stand in the cinema line, where Chris had befriended a couple of stoned boys from Florida who both looked like stand-ins for That 70’s Show. We all stood there in the line and talked for a long time. It was still extremely hot. After we’d stood there for awhile, a tiny freckled orange-haired girl passed out and started seizing from the heat. She came around and seemed alright (though very embarrassed) and was led into the tent for some ice water. Then, a giant foam Butterfinger came around handing out mini-Snickers.

No, just kidding! They were mini-Butterfingers, of course! We all refused them initially, but when the Butterfinger told us they were cold, we all took them. At long last, the rope was pulled back, and we all filed into the dark, heavily air-conditioned cinema tent, which had rows and rows of folding chairs facing a screen.

We watched all manner of Don Hertzfeldt films. I enjoyed them, but then I started to feel really light-headed, even just sitting there in the air-conditioned dark. I ate a ProBar I had in my purse, and felt better. Don Hertzfeldt opened a Q&A after the screening (and after that, Chris managed to get his T-shirt autographed), but I cut out at that point, because the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were performing at Which Stage. I really love the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and was especially excited for this show. I am dimly aware that maybe the Yeah Yeah Yeahs aren’t cool anymore, is that right? Or perhaps they’re just thought of as really white, I don’t know. At any rate, I love them, and I really like Karen O’s voice and style and think she’s bad ass. When I arrived at Which Stage, I saw a little stand of bleachers that not many people seemed to be occupying, so I thought I’d sit on them, but they were for VIPs. As far as I can see, this is an excellent reason to spring for VIP tickets – people in the bleachers were actually able to watch the shows at both the stages (although I don’t think they had any enhanced vantage point in the tents). Otherwise, Which Stage was a packed, frying pan of a field. I started out relatively close to the stage, by the area where the cameramen perched, but so many people ended up pressed in on top of me that I had to withdraw. I was verging on panic attack again, and anyway, I couldn’t see anything, so there was no advantage to being closer. I have never been in a packed mob trying to see something up front without some six foot dude slipping around me with a polite ‘Excuse me,’ only to stand right in front of my face, as if I were standing there for some purpose unrelated to the performance onstage.

Right as I was planning my escape, Emily called and said she was to the left of the bleachers, so I fought my way back through the crowd and then all the way across to the right of the bleachers, which was no little trouble, let me tell you, and after I’d realized my mistake and fought my way back across to the left of the bleachers, I at last found Emily (and Jason), and we proceeded to squint at the stage. Very far away, a tiny Karen O was cavorting in front of an enormous blue eyeball. She wore a kimono, which she eventually dropped to reveal a romper and what appeared to be yellow striped tights. For some songs, she put a white drapey shawl-thing on her shoulders; other times, she took that back off. I think it was the wrong venue for this band, really – the music overwhelmed the vocals, and Karen O seemed to be struggling to fill up the space with her voice and her dancing. It was kind of stressful to watch, and I didn’t feel included at all, so before the end of the performance, we left in search of beers, shade and arepas.

Karen O, with eyeball.

One of the main problems with Bonnaroo is that the great amount of musical acts they are able to offer by running five stages simultaneously means you are bound to have to decide between many bands you really like. Nearly all of the bands I actually knew something about all seemed to overlap. I would have liked to catch Grizzly Bear – I have heard a couple of their songs and liked them – and I could have caught the end of their show, but I was sort of burnt out on concerts by this point (having seen half of two). Instead, we rode the ferris wheel. We stood in a brief line with a dad and small boy. The dad told us all about himself without prompting (this turned out to be true of many Bonnaroo attendees), and told what he obviously felt was an impressive story about his earlier visit with a woman (whose name I didn’t recognize, but who was obviously one of the musicians performing at the festival) who he’d gone to high school with, and who’d come out of her dressing room to say hi to them in — ‘Tell them what she was wearing, son?’ ‘A bra!!’

The ferris wheel yielded an eagle-eye view of just how vast Bonnaroo’s camping grounds were. These photos are all of different directions:

Camping...

...and more camping...

...and yet more camping...

...and three guesses.

The Bonnaroo attendance was around 75,000 this year. Manchester’s population is less than 10,000 (related side-note: if you google ‘Manchester, TN,’ the Bonnaroo website is the third result, after the city’s official web page and its Wikipedia entry; this is especially entertaining, because the Bonnaroo website does not have ‘Manchester’ in its title or description).

When we alighted from the ferris wheel, the sun had more or less set. Emily was torn between seeing Lucinda Williams and Ani DiFranco; she settled on Lucinda Williams, which I was happy about, because I could go with her, whereas I probably would have had to find something else to do if she’d gone to see Ani. I’d never seen Lucinda Williams before, but really enjoyed her entire set at This Tent, although again, I have no memory of it now to describe it for you. I can report, however, that she wore a black tank top and a black cowboy hat, and her muscly arms clenched at the guitar in the way of all cool folksinger chicks. I know this, because there were a great many mud puddles in This Tent, forcing large gaps in the crowd which increased visibility. Emily and I had had several $6 beers by this time, and toward the end of Lucinda Williams, we had to pee most desperately. We held out, though, and made a mad rush for the Port-a-Pots once the set had finished.

The Port-a-Pots are one of the more unpleasant Bonnaroo experiences. It was entirely necessary to use them multiple times each day – even if you opted not to drink beer (which is not something I can commit to when I have long periods of unoccupied time in close proximity to beer), you had to stay hydrated in the heat, so there was really no avoiding Port-a-Pot usage, and they were indeed foul. We learned after the first day to bring our own tissue packs, as TP was often out, and to bring Wet Wipes, as the hand-washing stations were not adjacent to the Port-a-Pots in any way and were sometimes impractical to get to immediately – and you did want to clean your hands immediately upon exiting, even if you didn’t touch anything but the door handle. I am forever grateful to my mother for teaching me to hover from a young age, ensuring muscular thighs and reliable balance that will enable me to emerge unscathed from any foul bathroom situation. Of course, the ideal thing is to have a penis.

Port-a-pots.

The Beastie Boys were headlining Friday night at What Stage, so we headed over there to meet up with all our friends. What Stage was already impassibly crowded. We crawled along the edge of the fray, by the food tents, and hovered there, dancing back and forth to avoid the converging streams of travelers with giant plates of fried potatoes and ketchupy hot dogs and slopping cups of beer, and Emily called her brother. He and Jeff were in the thick of it, and suggested we fight our way out to them, which we weren’t really sure about. Sara and Chris met up with us, and we expressed our reluctance to penetrate the crowd (or, really, to listen to the Beastie Boys). After hovering there for about half a song, we headed out into the now deserted other quadrants of Bonnaroo and Sara spread a sheet she’d brought out on the ground. At some point, Chris left to go get ready for his shift (he was shooting Public Enemy and then Paul Oakenfold, from midnight to 4:00am), and Michael and Jeff joined us (they weren’t overwhelmed with the Beastie Boys), and we drank a great many $6 fresh blended fruit drinks mixed with $0 vodka, and really had a merry old time.

At some point, we all split up, and decided to go wandering around. Sara, Emily and I found a performance of some sort that went into intermission just as we arrived. We spread out our sheet and watched some women in striped thigh-highs and bustiers and a couple of giant, fat guys with affected Cheech-type accents ape a sort of Weimar-era circus act type thing, where different performers reclined on nail beds, and then piled bricks and women on top, and that sort of thing.

A lot going on here.

Then, there was some hula-hooping, and soon after, Emily, Jason, Sara and I left. When we got back to Emily’s, I took a badly needed and tremendously appreciated shower, ate some trail mix, and collapsed into bed. Chris and the boys wouldn’t get back until well after daybreak.

Saturday

‘Oh, fuck,’ was my first thought upon waking Saturday morning. ‘I have two more days of this.’

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the concerts or anything. It’s just that I was quite sure I wasn’t interested enough to sustain this for two more full days. I suddenly felt extremely foolish for deciding to attend a four-day concert in the first place (however free the tickets). I am not a concert goer. It’s never once occurred to me to go to a concert without a friend extending an invitation. Before Bonnaroo, I had been to one Tori Amos concert, two They Might Be Giants concerts, two Indigo Girls concerts…and I’m pretty sure that’s it. And at least two of those weren’t so much concerts as they were free summer outdoor events. Bonnaroo 2009 is the most concert I’ve ever gotten in my life thus far!

Luckily, there was quite a lot of fooling around the house to be done before we made our way back to the festival grounds. First of all, Emily and Jason had settled on Freckles, and brought him home. We sat out on the back porch playing with the puppy, who was already 28 pounds at 12 weeks, and had paws the size of clay pigeons. He also had the loose skin and knock-kneed awkwardness of all puppies and kept rolling adorably off the porch and then straining at hopping back up, like a little kid coming out of the deep end.

What's that, Freckles?

Oh, ha, ha, ha, you are too much!

He also took every opportunity to make a break for his childhood home, inconveniently located right next door complete with mom, dad and remaining siblings. Emily wasn’t quite sure what to do about that, but decided that when we left, she would put him in a horse stable she happened to have handy on her massive property.

Also, Sara made French toast for breakfast, and Emily cooked bacon in a pot. I did not know such a thing was possible, but you can just cut the bacon in half and throw it in there.

Eventually, it was time once more for Bonnaroo. I rode with Emily, Jason and the boys, Sara and Chris having gone on ahead. We parked in day parking this time, as the massive lines had only persisted for the initial days of the festival, and so we had a shorter walk. The line at security was far shorter today, as well, likely because it was nearly 5:00pm by this time. Apparently, Jimmy Buffet had made a surprise appearance at noon that day, but we’d all missed it.

Emily wanted to see Jenny Lewis at That Tent. I called Sara, who had spread her sheet out at What Stage and was waiting to see Wilco. When I reached her, she was in a great spot just behind the scaffolding where the cameramen were, the fencing around which scaffolding even provided a small scrim of shade. The sun did not feel as intense, and it was nice sitting there, with a beer and a bit of personal space. Eventually, Wilco played, too, and they were really good. Um…fast? I don’t have a damn clue how to describe music, frankly. Why am I even writing this?

Wilco

One thing I was really disappointed about was the relatively chill atmosphere at Bonnaroo this year.  I had heard so many tales of bad acid trips and other drug-related freakouts, and I was really looking forward to seeing some crazy shit go down.  No luck, though.  We did see this dude dancing at Wilco, though:

Woo!

Oh, yeah!

I love you, Phish!

From 7ish to 8ish, both Elvis Costello and The Decemberists were playing, and this was a tough decision for me. I ended up wandering by Elvis Costello (at That Tent), who Emily said played an absolutely rocking show (she was up front for the whole thing), but for the couple songs I caught, he sounded particularly hoarse, and looked sweaty and uncomfortable, and it started to make me feel stressed about things.

Elvis Costello.

I then went over to This Tent, where The Decemberists sounded really awesome. I have some awareness that The Decemberists aren’t supposed to be cool anymore now, either, is that so? I don’t know. I guess I have a great fondness for super-white bands that were hip exactly 2.5 years ago. Anyway, I haven’t heard much of their stuff since Picaresque, so I don’t know if they’ve added new members, but the woman was singing a lot more than she usually does, and she sounded fantastic – it also sounded like maybe there were additional women singing? I don’t know; as usual, I couldn’t see the stage at all. I actually quite like Colin Meloy’s weird, HomestarRunner-ish-sounding voice, but I know a lot of people hate it, so maybe he’s trying not to dominate the vocals so much anymore. They also seemed to have a ton of really awesome visual things going on – I saw lights, and the tops of various props and things, and maybe costumes? – but I’ll be damned if I could find any spot to catch so much as a glimpse, so eventually, I gave it up and wandered over to the field and sat there for awhile, just listening and thinking.

I assert my personal space, pissing off some girl.

Before long, I started to feel lonely and worried, so I called everyone trying to figure out where I could meet up with someone. Luckily, Emily and Jason were eating, so, as I was starving to death, I headed over to where they were, at a picnic table by the ferris wheel. I inhaled a giant mound of red beans and rice, topped with a barbecued chicken skewer of at least two chicken’s worth of chicken, and immediately felt stuffed and remorseful. Sharing the picnic table with us were a chubby, long-haired couple from some Midwestern place, and the guy was quite stoned and happily monologuing about their trip and what all they’d seen so far.

‘Are you talking with your mouthful?’ interrupted his girlfriend. ‘Here, take my plate.’ They wandered off through the misting tent.

By this time, it was 8:30 or so, and almighty Bruce loomed ahead. Frankly, the three of us were ready to leave. Emily apologized several times throughout the trip for being such a party-pooper and wearing out on everything quickly, but I was massively relieved she had finally aged to my usual level of constant exhaustion. I’ve never been an endurance partier; I’m more of a social sprinter. I don’t think I could have made it had I had to spend a full, round, four days of solid, participatory Bonnaroo attendance.

But anyway, even wet blankets have to see Bruce Springsteen. Well, not ’see,’ of course, but ‘be within earshot of,’ at least. We headed over to What Stage, which was Beastie Boys Part Two. Sara still had her spot she’d had for Wilco earlier, but we didn’t see how we could get over there. Michael and Jeff joined us at this point, and we added ourselves to the edge of seated people, which kept encroaching further and further into the pedestrian lane by the food stalls. We then spent a good thirty minutes getting stepped on and waiting for Bruce to appear. Some giant, bald, blue collar guys flopped down in front of us. Two of them immediately laid down and went to sleep, but the third (wearing a flesh-toned Spandex shirt, camouflage shorts and a bandana) struck up a conversation with us, about how he slaves all year for the man, just waiting for Bonnaroo, where he can cut loose and just enjoy himself, talk to people, be outdoors. He then sampled a bottle of coke and Peppermint Schnapps that one of us was drinking, and was very impressed. ‘Y’all are wild!’ exclaimed dude. ‘I like y’all, y’all are crazy.’

Bruce took his sweet ass time about coming onstage. He finally started around 9:30 or so, and we stayed for a few songs. I didn’t recognize any of them. I happen to be very familiar with the Tunnel of Love album – in fact, I could probably sing all the songs on it from memory right now. The reason is that Tunnel of Love was one of two tapes my dad possessed when I was a kid (the other being Bonnie Raitt’s Love In the Nick of Time), and we would listen to it on a loop whenever we took a car trip somewhere. Other than that, however, I am only familiar with the big Bruce hits everybody knows.

Bruce Springsteen, and his E Street Band.

A closer view of Bruce.

Bruce, after the crowd thinned out some.

To me, Bruce sounded really old and tired and raspy. Sara and Chris report, however, that he played an amazing set, and that it was really long, and in the middle he opened it up to requests and just played whatever people wanted for, like, seven songs.

But I didn’t see any of that, because, as you’ll surely be shocked to hear, Emily, Jason and I left after two songs. When we arrived back at Emily’s house, we found that Freckles had escaped from the stable and returned to the bosom of his family. I had another thoroughly satisfying shower and went to bed.

Sunday

Sunday morning, I awoke to find Emily and Jason once again acclimating Freckles to the porch. Freckles’ dad, the boxer, had followed them back and was standing around suspiciously, scrutinizing his son’s new gig. Once he’d decided what he thought, he lifted his leg and pissed all over the grill. Freckles’ new owners, meanwhile, gave him a giant red meat bone and were vigilant in refusing dad access to it, and that was pretty much all it took for Freckles to rearrange where his loyalties lay. Shortly, the neighbors came by with the mom and two of the siblings, and Freckles pranced around with his bone, displaying everything he’d managed to come into. The puppies turned on each other, suddenly rivals. This drama, with its underlying implications, would have been depressing, except it was enacted by puppies, so it was fucking adorable.

Sara and Chris had not gotten in till after daybreak again, but they’d managed to stop by Wal-Mart, and when they got up, they made pancakes and bacon. (Yeah, that’s right, bitchez! We had bacon three mornings in a row, cause that’s how we roll.) We did try to get moving relatively quickly that morning, because Emily really wanted to see Erykah Badu at 3:30, and Chris wanted to enjoy his first day not having to stay focused and alert to work at midnight. We had a frenetic time getting out of the house, with people running in and out. Emily and I started to leave, then she forgot her wristband (which, by the way, a word on the wristbands: they were meant to be irremovable, but as soon as we got them, everyone else started tugging at theirs so that they could get them on and off. I, on the other hand, tugged mine as tight as it would go, and so was stuck with it all four days. The tails of it were pretty long and between the mud, and the puppies, and the Porta-Pots, and the spilling beer, and the breakfasts with syrup, I was really ready when it finally came time to cut the damn thing off.), so we went back, and then Michael and Jeff were almost ready, and then we might as well take Jason’s truck, and so forth. Eventually, we were on the way, and well before 3:30, Sara, Emily and I were on Sara’s sheet at the same general spot as before, waiting for Erykah Badu to appear.

Today there was no shade, and it was very, very hot. I had worn knee-length denim cut-offs for some reason, and they were soaked with sweat. The sun was so intense, I found it necessarily to reapply my SPF 55 before the concert had even started. Bonnaroo is a very communal sort of festival – you’re offered all kinds of things by those around you, and are supposed to reciprocate in kind. By the time my 55 got back to me, it was empty. Still, the sun. Still, no Erykah. Her band and back-up singers came out one by one, and finally, she appeared, in sunglasses, skin-tight jeans, stilettos, and a hoodie with the hood up. I got heatstroke just looking at her. This time I actually could see the stage, which was a new experience for me, but I still can’t describe the music, although I do remember it, being somewhat familiar with Erykah Badu. Anyway, she was great, to the point where the concert seemed really short to me, which is saying something, as all concerts seem interminable to me, even if I’m really enjoying them. I had actually intended to cut out early, because Andrew Bird was playing at Which Stage, and I’m a big fan of his, but we still managed to catch a few songs. I have some vague awareness that Andrew Bird is recently cool, yes? Which makes me really proud of myself, because I have liked him longer than most people. I saw him open for The Magnetic Fields at a concert at Chicago’s Old Town School of Folk Music (hey, there’s another concert I forgot about!), and thought that he was great. I also liked The Magnetic Fields a lot, but I’ve since gone off them because I read an interview where Stephin Merritt talked a lot about how the lyrics to songs shouldn’t mean anything and none of his do. Which, I know that most music fans don’t really care about lyrics, but I am a verbal person, and I really listen to lyrics. And the thing is, whether you do or don’t care about them much, if you’re a musician and you do choose to have lyrics (you don’t have to have them at all, and lots of bands mostly don’t have them), then shouldn’t they be necessary? Why would you put anything in your music that you don’t really want there? If you are going to have lyrics, commit to them at least is all I’m saying. Anyway, I think Which Stage was too large a venue for Andrew Bird; again, I didn’t feel included.

Andrew Bird.

After that, Emily was ready to go. Phish was headlining that night – we had missed them on Friday and we liked it so well, we thought we’d miss them again. I kind of wanted to hear Neko Case, though, so we headed over to This Tent, where Emily and Jason got involved in a game of frisbee with some folks, and I chased the moving shade. Michael and Jeff joined us shortly, and after awhile Neko Case started to play somewhere over behind the mob of people, but we were pretty much depleted and we left.

And that, more or less, was my Bonnaroo experience. I enjoyed it, although I think I personally would have benefited more from one solid day of bands I really liked, as four days was just too much for me. And I would have liked to be able to actually see some of the bands. But if you want to go to Bonnaroo, I definitely would recommend getting free tickets. Also, a lot of people camp around the festival site, but I would recommend staying in a giant, comfortable nearby house with hot showers, a washer-dryer and a puppy. That’s what I did, and it worked out really well. Also, I’d suggest having a big breakfast cooked for you every morning, because it really helps get you through the first half of the day. Just a few suggestions.

Au revoir!

Have you heard of Tatarstan, Kalmykia, Mari El or Udmurtia? Daniel Kalder bets you haven’t. In his travelogue, Lost Cosmonaut, he journeys to all four of these small republics in the wasteland of Southwestern Russia in search of nothingness. For Kalder (and for the reader), these locations’ complete and total lack of anything of interest makes them bizarrely fascinating travel destinations.

For the first dozen or so pages of Lost Cosmonaut, I found Kalder to be an annoyingly central narrator, but once he gets into the book, his tone becomes less forced and show-offy, and the rest of this travel narrative is as witty and informative as it is bizarre. Russia is one of the few countries that hard-core travelers will dissuade you from exploring – “Seriously,” they’ll promise. “See Moscow and St. Petersburg, but that’s it.” – and as such, I’ve always been curious about it. Thanks to Kalder, I now know that out there in all the bleak vastness, there are indeed some oddities scattered about: embalmed babies, a “city” built entirely for chess, mail-order bride warehouses, pagan rituals, and earnest community theater.

The Li River winds through Guilin, puddling into many lakes surrounded on all sides by landscaped parks and ornate pagodas. The parks and the river are lit at night with colored lights everywhere, and in the mornings, mist hangs over the huge, blobbish mountains that surround the city, and it’s lovely really. My second night in Guilin, I was walking back to my hotel when a girl on a bike ‘hello’d’ me. She told me that she was Wan Chai Ling and that she was very excited (like everyone) to practice her English with foreigners. I asked her what I should make sure to see in Guilin, and she said I had to take the Li River cruise. I said it was expensive for foreigners, and she said she’d go with me so they’d sell me a ticket for the Chinese tour, which is less.

Well, I think we all see where this is going. I saw where it was going at the time, but yet…I got hosed, my friends. But not until the next day. Actually, she did get me a good price on the Li River thing (I knew what the ballpark should be), and I really did want to do that. She asked if I was going to hike up Solitary Beauty Peak, and I said actually I was going to do that the next day, and she said maybe she could come along. We arranged a meeting place for the next morning. I was pretty lonely by this point in my travels, so I looked forward to doing something with another person.

I met up with Ling the following morning. It was a sunny day, but cool, and the sweet osmanthus trees were full and shady overhead. I was all set to head off for the park. Ling was too, just as soon as we’d made a quick stop by the art gallery where she was a student, so she could drop off her bike.

Now. The art student scam is so old, it was actually described in my guidebook…and yet, I fell for it anyway. We went into a little gallery on a quiet street, and looked at the prints, and Ling proudly showed me all of her work, and I praised it. Then she told me I should really buy some, and I said no thank you. And then she introduced me to her teacher – a soft-spoken, thin, older man – and the two of them showed me a binder where all sorts of travelers had written their many purchases and how much they’d paid, and how impressed they were to find such unique and beautiful souvenirs. I said that was wonderful, but I wasn’t going to buy anything. The three of us went several rounds with this, and whereas in normal circumstances I would have been terribly alienated by the pressure, in this situation what with the language gap (and the fact that, compared to them, I was swimming in dough), and because they were so nice and seemed so genuinely proud of the work, I started to feel like a real heel.

So, I bought a damn print of a stupid piece of bamboo. It was $10, which is insane by China standards, and at that point, I resolved to shake Ling as soon as we were done seeing the peak. Off we went to the peak, Ling showing me the osmanthus trees and the outcroppings of rock in the Li that people say resemble animals drinking. She explained that the bun I bought for breakfast was a wife biscuit, which differs from a husband biscuit by the filling. She translated the lyrics of this Chinese song that had been stuck in my head for about a week. I enjoyed having someone around to explain things, and by the time we got to the park, I was feeling fairly relaxed. Ling gave me a tour of the Jingjiang Princely Mansion grounds, and when we arrived at the base of the peak, she said she’d wait at the bottom for me while I climbed up.

Solitary Beauty Peak has a natural rock corridor running up one side that has been hewn into steps. From the top, there’s a nice view, but I was mainly busy having my picture made with a dozen Chinese tourists. In the midst of this, I struck up a conversation with some similarly plagued kids from Ft. Lauderdale (who were all on a semester at sea), and lo and behold – they told me they’d met a local young woman who was giving them a tour and was waiting at the bottom for them right now! When we all arrived at the bottom (followed by our camera-toting entourage), Ling was seated at a cafe table with these kids’ guide.

I couldn’t shake Ling after that, though, I have to say, I was probably the most obstinate mark she’d ever had the misfortune to choose. I didn’t want a massage, I didn’t want a tea ceremony, or a name chop or to go to the minority theatre or on a bamboo boat, I didn’t want lunch or to try some snake. But I did let her take me to a crowded, smoky Internet cafe, where she got to watch me check my email and blog comments, and then I announced that I was going to my hotel for a nap, but she said I was going to have some tea.

‘No, I’m going to my hotel to nap,’ I said.

‘Yes, to relax and cup of tea,’ she said. One thing about not speaking a language very well is you can often feign obtuseness to get what you want. I’ve done this myself.

‘I have to have tea to get away from you?’

‘What, my friend?’

So I went to a freaking tea shop. To my credit, I went with her on the slight off chance that she really wanted to have a cup of tea at a cafe, and if it was a shop, I was going to walk right out. But when we got there, the Ft. Lauderdale kids were there having the Best Day Ever, and had just purchased hundreds of yuan worth of tea. I didn’t want to ruin their time by informing them they were being taken advantage of, and while I hesitated, I found myself seated with Ling at a little table, and the shop attendant began to pour out a tasting. ‘You’ll love this!’ promised the Ft. Lauderdale kids. The guy serving us was really attractive and charismatic. He made super cool small talk and lots of eye contact with me, while he pressured me to buy some tea. I refused. He persisted. Ling joined in, and explained how I really ought to buy a lot of tea. I refused. They both scaled back on what they were requesting I buy, but I flat refused to buy anything at all, resulting in the guy getting visibly annoyed at Ling, and both of them losing all interest in me.

But the weird thing was, the social niceties had to be observed and even after the whole thing had turned sour, the tea guy, his manager, Ling and I all sat around and finished the tea and chatted stiffly, even though everyone really just wanted to get away from each other. It was much like being back home in the South. They charged me Y30 for the totally unwanted tasting. I should have refused to pay it, but I kept thinking of Richard Gere crawling into a tiny cage, and just wanted to get out of there. I actually ran into the tea shop guy later that night in the street, and I tried to flirt with him, but he only wanted to sell me a ticket to the minority theatre.

I realize now that people don’t get necessarily get taken because they don’t know what’s going on. Rather, scams succeed because people are immediately so embarrassed about being duped that they will participate in full knowledge of what’s happening just to avoid the social awkwardness of calling it out. I, for one, colluded in my own scamming, because I was too polite to make a scene.

Really, there was no harm done, other than to my pride. But as far as I’m concerned, Wan Chai Ling of Guilin, China still owes me Y15 for her half of a tea tasting.

In New York, personal space is always at a premium. Until very recently, Greenpoint was an oasis for those who need their breathing room: conveniently adjacent to the non-stop party that is Williamsburg, Greenpoint was a less crowded, less expensive hood for those who prefer to have their fun and then go home. Unfortunately, it seems the hipsters have gotten hip, and with each passing year, there’s a little less room in Greenpoint.

If you’re willing to go a bit out of your way, however, there are a few places that seem to have escaped the influx.

It’s brunch on a Sunday, and Brooklyn Label and the Park Luncheonette have lines out the door. But there’s another option that always has seating. Head North on Manhattan Ave. all the way to Huron St. and have juevos rancheros or a breakfast burrito at chef-to-stalk Cody Utzman’s Mexican street food restaurant, Papacitos. Delicious brunch for under $10 (and great veg options), friendly service, and – now that it’s summer – the long picnic tables in the breezy garden can accommodate all your friends at once.

After brunch, it’s time to do some shopping. Don’t feel like strolling Franklin Ave’s boutiques with the Vans-shod masses? Just steps from Papacitos, check out The Thing, an old school thrift store that’s as packed with stuff as Bburg’s Junk, but not packed with patrons – possibly because the place is a dusty mess and the owners are cranky. But the basement is a sight to behold, crammed with thousands upon thousands of used LPs. If you’ve got money left, head South on Manhattan Ave. Weirdly, Fred Flare chose to open their first ever brick-and-mortar store at the random out-of-the-way corner of Meserole and Leonard. The store’s adorable, and the merch is cuter. But best of all, you and your pals will likely have the run of the place.

Shopping not enough cardio to work off your brunch, but don’t want to crowd into the Sunday afternoon Greenpoint YMCA sweat-fest? Try Otom Gym, a block away on Calyer. Cheaper than the Y (a recent summer special is around $40/month) and less crowded, but you will have to ignore the exaggerated grunts of the weightlifting, musclebound men who make up the majority of the clientele. For a peaceful (and free) workout, you can always go for a run in the park. If it’s nice out, McCarren Park is sure to be carpeted in sunbathers, but shady, smaller Monsignor McGolrick Park, East of McGuinness between Huron and Driggs is always quiet. There are more trees in McGolrick, a small dog run and a playground, as well as a sheltered pavilion and several interesting sculptures — check out the weird squirrel statutes on either side of the West gate, that appear ready to pounce.

Just West of McGorlick on Nassau is Brooklyn Standard Deli, Cody Utzman’s brand new organic mini-mart. In an area saturated with Polish delis, Utzman’s store is a Godsend for foodies, with locally sourced and organic goods at corner store prices, and sandwiches and prepared meals, plus Stumptown coffee, homebaked goods and a juicebar. The focus here is on vegan and vegetarian fare (though meat options are also available). All this, and more elbow room than The Garden.

But if you’re craving Polish (and in Greenpoint, who wouldn’t be?), but Old Poland and Lomzynianka are packed, check out Antek Restaurant on Norman, across from the library. This bare bones Polish cafeteria has no English postings alongside the Polish menu, but here’s a hint: there are English take-out menus on the counter. The dishes are huge, tasty and dirt cheap – like a hearty white borscht with a mound of mashed potatoes for $2.50 – and there’s plenty of seating where you can chill and watch Polish TV.

For dessert, skip the perennially packed Peter Pan donuts, and head North on Manhattan to the charming Cafe Riviera, where mammoth, flaky croissants and fruit-and-cheese-filled danish the size of hubcaps are on offer for only $1.50, and cafe au lait in a pretty glass mug is $.50. The seating is limited, the line is often long, but most people get their treats to go. If you do snag one of the marble-topped cafe tables, it’s a pleasant place to watch the foot traffic down Manhattan.

When it comes time to hit the Greenpoint night life, stay well clear of the drunken scenesters at Enid’s and Matchless. Rather, head up North on Manhattan to The Hideaway, a hunting-lodge-inspired bar with yummy cocktails and bar food, nightly specials and episodes of Planet Earth on the overhead TVs. The Hideaway is cozy, but there’s always an open table, and the patrons are more into conversing with each other than striking poses at the bar.

Don’t stay out too late, though – if you’re like everyone else in Brooklyn, you’ve got a long day of freelance work ahead of you! When it comes time to pay the bills, there are a number of places to squat in Greenpoint. Cafe Grumpy and Greenpoint Coffee House are well-known haunts for laptop-toters, but try Eat on Meserole at Leonard. This tiny coffeeshop-slash-record store has great ambiance and no customers. Be forewarned:  they’ve recently gotten rid of the wireless and ask that you not bring laptops – but hey, going offline can really increase your productivity!  Plus, unlike Grumpy, Eat has a delicious full menu. By your third visit, you’ll be besties with the staff.

To get to Greenpoint, take the G to Greenpoint or Nassau. (Or skip the crowded platform and lengthy wait at Courthouse Square, and stroll over the Pulaski Bridge instead!)

Ali Smith’s The Accidental has a freaking form poem flight thing in the middle of it. No book ever has the right to priss about being cute with the layout of text on page – I hate that. If there were a gimmicky little concrete poem in the middle of the greatest book ever written, I’d detest it. Short sentences, run-ons, overlapping dialogue – fine. I love me some DFW footnotes. But any actual text effects belong on motivational posters or in powerpoint presentations, not in the middle of a novel I am trying to read. I can’t stand gimmicks.

I took a poetry class in college wherein the professor went on and on about the way poems looked on the page, the shape of the thing. What were we, calligraphers? If you have something to say and you’re a painter, show it to me visually. But if you’re a writer, freaking write it! Don’t put a precious little fucking flipbook in the middle of your novel, don’t put one word on each page for a time, don’t make the paragraph look like a cat when you turn the book to the side. How trite and cute can you be? I can’t believe real critics have any patience for this kind of nonsense, but sickeningly, it seems to be increasing every year. What’s next? Music boxes that play when you flip the pages? A small hologram? A scavenger hunt? A free toy in a hollowed-out space in the middle? A plush bunny on the cover with a squeak in its tail? Come the fuck on! If you can’t blow my mind with your prose, you won’t make up for it in doodles. And the hell with you for wasting my time.

And yes, I liked House of Leaves (although I don’t consider it revelatory or anything), but it is the exception that proves the rule. And I realize graphic novels are growing in importance and popularity, and eventually there might be bleedover and to enforce a stern boundary between novel-novels and graphic-novels will be pointlessly rigid and fusty. But I’ll adjust my ideas about that when I see it. Meanwhile, I don’t want to read the free verse horridness painters from a decade back were fond of scrawling across their canvasses in metallic gold paint pens, and likewise, I don’t want a toy or a bauble in text form from a writer.

And lest I be misunderstood, my issue with all this is not its novelty, but its meaninglessness.

Ahem. Even beyond the alienating concrete poem bit of stuff in the middle of The Accidental, I didn’t particularly care for the book. I just felt it tread over a lot of really familiar territory without adding anything much. I didn’t take away any truth or insight into the human condition. But apparently, people loved this book. It was short-listed for the Booker and had mostly good reviews.

I did really enjoy the passages in Astrid’s point of view, the family’s 12-year-old girl. The family is staying in a rental house, and at the beginning of the novel, Astrid spends a lot of time trying not to touch any of the surfaces of the house, or anything in it, because she’s disgusted by the idea of all the people who have used the house before them. She arranges a sheet over the bed before lounging on it, she tears bread from the middle of a loaf rather than use a knife and so forth. I can attest to the accuracy of this portrayal; I spent a ton of time in childhood trying not to touch anything. And actually, I never really grew out of it. Even as I backpacked across Asia, I had my rituals.

I was talking to a friend about this the other day. My friend was saying something about hygienic restaurant conditions, or something to do with food. And I said that I have no squeamishness about food and don’t really stress about the conditions in which it was prepared, because, even though I know that people not washing their hands and then handling food transfers diarrhea around (hence traveler’s tummy), and even though that’s disgusting if you actually think about it…well, really, all that happens is you maybe get a little sick for a day.

I said that I really have more worries in the tactile realm – that I don’t like to touch surfaces.

And then I suddenly realized how freaking crazy that is. I mean, I always knew that my obsession over not touching anything wasn’t rooted in any actual germaphobia, and had no real base at all – that it was rather just a general feeling of squirmy discomfort. It’s just that some things you have to touch are gross, the way you find some foods gross – it’s not that you think they’re dangerous; it’s just that you don’t like them. But I never thought about how nuts it is to put any old thing inside my body, but obsess about things touching the outside of my skin. Not to put too fine a point on it, but apparently, I would rather eat feces than sit in them.

Not that the realization did away with my baseless phobia, but I thought it was worth remarking on.

Jose Saramago’s The Double did not annoy me with any gimmicks, and I did walk away from it with, I felt, greater insight into the human condition. It’s commonly advised that, if you’re not “into” a novel by 100 pages in, you should put it down and start another. I have read quite a few books, however, where I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not until I finished the very last page. Perhaps these are books that don’t so much reflect how I see the world, as explain in a complete and compelling way how the world appears to someone else (the author). So, while I don’t hook into them immediately, by the time I come to the end, I feel satisfied. The Double is one of those books for me. And the same books that I can’t figure out if I like them or not until I finish the last words are generally those about which I cannot articulate what I liked, so I have nothing else to say about this.

Should English be our official national language? My opinion is, who the hell cares? But some people care a whole, whole lot.

Here’s a good, detailed discussion of this at Language Log (this quote pretty much sums up what I think):

In short, English is already, for all practical purposes, the language of the nation (not to mention much of the world in many ways), and it’s going to take a heck of a lot more than a growing population of (mostly Spanish-speaking) immigrants – a population that has been shown in study after study to lose their heritage language and adopt English within three generations, as Jon Weinberg helpfully pointed out – to change that. If we make English official, there’s no telling how its currently exalted position would be affected.

. . . In my view, the move to make English official in the US is effectively a political move to disenfranchise minority or otherwise already disempowered groups along culturally-defined lines. Using language for this purpose is particularly insidious.

I am actually quite embarrassed that I only speak English. It was lazy of me never to really learn another language, and traveling made me all the more embarrassed of myself, because it seems like damn near everybody all over the world can muddle along in at least two languages – no matter how broke, rural and otherwise uneducated they are. And mostly what they speak is English (even though apparently it’s one of the most difficult languages to learn if you’re not a native speaker), which is so fortunate for me, because I don’t have to learn word one and still rarely have difficulty communicating anywhere I go. Obama thinks it’s embarrassing, too.

Many Americans, however, are not the least bit embarrassed for only speaking English. They are rather infuriated that anybody would set foot on American soil without speaking English in addition to whatever else they speak, or (if foreigners do speak it) for speaking it poorly, or with a thick accent.

These are people who often say, “I wouldn’t go to a country where I don’t speak the language, so I don’t see why ‘they’ come here.” Leaving aside the obvious stupidity in this statement (people come here because there is money here), what a limited, incurious perspective that statement reveals! Who are these people who wouldn’t go where they don’t speak the language? I’d hate to think that my possible living situations are limited to English-speaking countries. Not only would I happily go somewhere (for a short or long period of time) where I don’t speak the language, but I’d most likely be welcomed there. Speech isn’t the only way to communicate. If two people focus up, they can usually communicate across a language barrier without too much trouble, especially if one or both of them stands to profit from it.

I’ve actually talked to people who complain about having to push 1 for English. Here’s LL again on this:

I find the objection to “press 1 for English” incredibly curious. I would think that a large proportion of those who object would encourage businesses to act in their self-interest by whatever legal means necessary – and making multiple language options available for their (potential) customers is one easy, legal way to increase your business (even if you’ll lose some idiots who can’t bring themselves to press a simple button for their language).

It seems like, before anyone would actually complain about the time it takes them to press 1 for English, they might think for a beat about what life in general would be like to be somebody who has to press 2 for Spanish – talk about inconvenient! – and then count their blessings and shut the hell up.

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Speaking of language and stupidity, is Obama really a great speaker, or is it just that the level of our political oratory has been brought so low?

A major reason that Obama’s rhetoric seems to soar so high is that our expectations have sunk so low. In a new book, The Anti-Intellectual Presidency, Elvin T. Lim subjects all the words ever publicly intoned by American presidents to a thorough statistical analysis-and he finds, unsurprisingly, an alarmingly steady decline. A century ago, Lim writes, presidential speeches were pitched at a college reading level; today, they’re down to eighth grade, and if the trend continues, next century’s State of the Union addresses will be conducted at the level of “a comic strip or a fifth-grade textbook.”

(via 3QD)

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Psst.  Hey, English champs: do you know what a grawlix is?

What about mamihlapinatapai? Define that, suckaz! (Yeah, ok, so that one’s not English.)

On Italy

I read a book about Rome once. I was a child of seven, and I was looking through my grandmother’s bookcase. Well do I remember the smell of Grandmother’s house: talcum powder and slightly moldering carpets. Grandmother had a vast collection of books about far-away and wonderful places. Rome attracted my attention because of its connotation in my mind with gladiators and emperors and columns, all strapping and assertive things. I remember the photos of the Trevi fountain, photos of busy sidewalk cafes, photos of ruins under a setting sun…

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On America

When I read Alexis de Tocqueville, I imagine the America that de Tocqueville experienced. Wide, wonderful, its woods and its peoples exactly as de Tocqueville describes them. Perhaps one day, I too will travel there. I hope not.

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On China

Ah, the Orient! There is a Chinaman lives down the street from me. Four years ago, I went for a walk around the block and caught a glimpse of him. I assume he lives there still. Paris is probably very different from China and indeed, everything that I have read on the subject confirms my opinions on the matter.

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On The Arctic Circle

In my younger days, I traveled freely. All around the neighborhood and even somewhat into France – Illiers, Orleans. …I guess that’s about it. At any rate, winter (as remembered from back in the years when I used to go out in it) approximates, it seems to me, the far, icy Northern regions of the Arctic. Undoubtedly, the Arctic is colder still, but I think France in February is sufficiently bitter for my purposes; I can surmise the rest.

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On Africa

Africa. The dark continent.  Drums beating in the bushes, women beating cassava into flat pancakes for their suppers, the cruel sun beating down over the desert. The Brits beating everyone in sight. Africa! The cradle of civilization! All men trace themselves back to you, motherland – your blood beats through all our veins! If I think back, back into my ancestry, can I perhaps remember your vast savannas, your jungles, your lions roaming across the plains?

…Certainly not.

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On A Cafe

In my younger, hedonistic days, there was a bar I went to twice. The barman was an older Parisian fellow, who served me well and with a certain degree of familiarity, despite the fact that he knew me not. Both times, I felt ill at ease, and did not finish my libation, but there was a sort of feeling I experienced immediately upon entering the bar of being somehow freed of all cares. This feeling dissipated as quickly as ever it had descended, and I returned to feeling generally ashamed, frightened and overwhelmed with my adventure. But if I meditate intensely on that first, fleeting sense of peace, I can rather imagine what it must be like to frequent taverns and restaurants and opera houses and other people’s salons… Yes.

I imagine it feels similar to the comfort I experience here at home in my bed, knowing that I need never leave it, and that I will not leave it.

Last weekend, my improv team drove up to Providence, Rhode Island to perform in the annual improv festival there. Being New Yorkers, we’re all a bit rusty on driving, but, after briefly (and oh, so gently) tapping an elderly Polish pedestrian with our car (for some reason, the old man threw a little fit about this), we made it out of Brooklyn and into Queens.

We were in Queens for a long time. Queens is confusing, even with the GPS device that was our Lord and Master for the duration of the trip. I’ve never worked with a GPS device before. This one was pretty handy, but at the same time, confusing. And the smooth, female British voice that we selected could sound anywhere from condescending to downright exasperated depending on how often she was forced to repeat herself. This was her advice: ‘Turn right now. Turn right n— …Recalculating. Make a Uuuu-Turn. Make a Uuuu-Turn. …Recalculating. Turn left, then turn right. Turn left now. Left. Left now! (Sigh.) …Recalculating. Make a Uuuu-Turn.’

In this way, we eventually emerged from the Bronx and into Connecticut…to sit in a stop-and-start traffic jam all the way through New Haven. But we did make it to Providence in time for our show, and even our most tardy car-full of players burst into the greenroom fifteen minutes before curtain.

Providence is charming; it reminded me of a New England version of Charleston. Unfortunately, I have no photos, because I was too lazy to ever take my camera out of the trunk. We spent Saturday wandering up and down Thayer Street, the commercial district surrounding the Brown University campus in Providence’s East Side neighborhood. Thayer Street is lined with colorfully painted, old two-story houses made into cafes, antique shops, hippie-clothing stores catering to students and so forth. There were a lot of young people milling around, and everybody seemed to know each other. The main drag gave onto wide, tree-lined blocks of Victorian mansions with wrap-around porches. As is always the case when New Yorkers venture out of the city, my friends and I were delightfully amazed by the low prices and general friendliness we were met with all through the city.

Around 4:00 p.m., we piled back into the car, switched on the GPS device and headed back to New York. But on the way, we stopped at the Ikea in New Haven.

Now, since I do live in the world, I’d heard all about the Ikea thing – from back when Ikea was the most totally awesome thing ever to now, when mention of Ikea is generally accompanied by an apologetic eye-roll. But until last weekend, I had yet to actually go to one myself.

Here’s my interior monologue, which best describes how I experienced my very first Ikea visit:

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“Wow, this place is huge! This stuff all looks pretty cool. Okay, I’m ready to eat now.

…Oh. We’re shopping. I guess we’re going to be shopping for awhile.

Oh, this place is really huge.

Oh, we’re really shopping.

Oh, I’m going to be here for a very long time.

…Damn it.

Well. These apartment set-ups all look really great. Maybe I should buy something. What would I buy? What would look good in my apartment? What does my apartment look like?

I can’t remember.

I just know it doesn’t look like these apartments. My apartment looks like shit.* How do you make something like my apartment look like these apartments look?

I’m not equal to this challenge.

The people who live in these apartments are probably really happy.

These apartments are cheap and cute, and probably what most people would consider good starter-apartment solutions until they get their careers going, and make enough money to have a real, nice house. Whereas for me, these Ikea apartments are like the long-term-goal apartments. If, by retirement, I am living in an Ikea apartment, I will have exceeded my own expectations.

I’m not at all where I should be at 27. I still sleep in a twin bed, have a shower curtain on my window, and nothing on my walls except for a hideous poster of Native Americans that I found in the trash! I should get a couch. And a career. And a car. And a dog. And friends. And a Relationship.

Or maybe just some meatballs. Yes, meatballs will improve matters. And then, we will leave.

Whoa, there’s another floor! A whole other floor! Oh, I want all matching dishes! I want all matching dishes to eat breakfast on in the sun in a pretty dress with the whole day ahead of me and appointments and a book to write them all down in that matches my handbag, and colorful cocktails after with good-looking people at a rooftop bar where all the drinks cost $14!!!! I want everything about my life to be entirely different, and I want it all to occur in a color-coordinated, cunningly planned setting!!!! I want to design every, single inch of my life, so it’s an appropriate backdrop for the huge, personal successes that will surely follow!!!!!

Or not.

Hell, I can at least buy some new sheets. This way, I don’t have to wash my old ones.”

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And that is what I did – I got red and pink sheets, and I’m very happy with them. And I also got an ice-cube tray that makes ice cubes shaped like tiny liquor bottles. It’s not much, but it’s a start. And it all cost less than $20 which is the main reason Ikea is so very awesome. I might go again someday, if I ever feel I have things together enough to justify putting some effort into decorating my environment. But frankly, I’m still probably several years (and possibly several cities) away from that point.

And yes, I realize I had more to say about the Ikea than about Providence. What can I say? They’ve got a great business concept going.

__
*Roommates, if you read this, our apartment does not really look like shit. It only looks like shit when it’s standing next to a precious, little Ikea model, and those models only exist to make ordinary apartments feel bad about themselves anyway.

Well, since Wesley Clark brought it up, does military service make for better presidential leadership, or no?

. . . [H]istory is agnostic on whether great warriors make great presidents. In the “yea” column you’ll find George Washington. Because I’m feeling generous . . . I’ll thow in Teddy Roosevelt. And if you insist that I expand the column to include borderline cases, we could also talk about Andrew Jackson. . ., Harry Truman, and Ike. The “nay” column is far longer, so I’ll just hit the highlights: Zachary Taylor, U.S. Grant, Rutherford Hayes, James Garfield, Benjamin Harrison, William McKinley, John Kennedy, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, George H.W. Bush, and, of course, George W. Bush.  Perhaps more interesting than any of the above, though, is this: the nation’s two greatest commanders in chief, and, not coincidentally, two greatest presidents, Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, never served in the military.

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Much about Obama’s tax plan here:

. . . [I]n a better world, the findings from the TPC report would squelch the anti-Obama chatter around his tax plan vs. McCain’s. In that distortion chamber, the fact that Obama raises taxes on families with incomes above $250,000, and only on those families, morphs into a big tax increase on the middle class ($250K and up gets you in the top 3-4 percent, by the way). The report (compare tbls 1 and 6), in fact, clearly shows how topsy-turvy that critique really is. Obama’s middle-class tax cut, about $1,000, is three times that of McCain’s, about $300. Obama cuts the taxes of 81 percent of families; McCain, 56 percent.

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Why the SC’s decision on the D.C. gun ban might be great for the Democrats:

. . . [T]he Court went and struck down the District of Columbia’s handgun ban, a decision that, for reasons cultural and chronological, will cast a shadow over every other case this term. And that, I’m convinced, is one of the best gifts the Court has given a democrat since West Coast Hotel. The reasons are simple: D.C. v. Heller takes the Court off the table as an electoral liability, and it takes the National Rifle Association off the table as an electoral threat. The first part of that claim is easy enough: a term that ends with a landmark conservative decision will not be easily spun into an urgent need to remedy what McCain has called federal judges who have “little regard for the authority of the president, the Congress, and the states.”

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And, too, this:

It is possible that Obama does not realize this because he has been imbibed by so much of the propaganda of quislingism and if that is the case as I believe it to be then I tremulantly recommend we halt the malmish adulation heaped upon wretched misfits. If anything Obama has hair in his brain and even though we all are to some extent as hairy Obama sets the bar on the curve that much higher up the mountain.

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Speaking of being pedantic, y’all:  apparently, we’re not supposed to say “correlation does not imply causation.”  Oops.

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The U.S. is suffering from a decline in foreign tourists.  To remedy this, those tourists will now be charged $10 upon their arrival on U.S. soil.

I just want to say that I was charged an exit fee when I went through the Bangkok airport, despite a layover there being the only time I spent in Thailand (about two hours, total, never leaving the airport).  I had gone from one terminal to the check-in desk, and back again, after somebody wrongly told me this was the only way to change from the small Malaysian airline I’d flown in on, to another, larger flight for which I’d booked an entirely different ticket.  When I tried to reenter the terminal after checking in, not only was I forced to pay an exit fee, but in order to do so, I had to exchange money into freaking baht at an airport currency exchange counter.   Man, was I pissed.

I don’t know what that has to do with anything, really, but it feels good to share.

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Humanitarian intervention is one of those complicated issues:

Contrast this with the economists’ way of approaching matters: will intervening do more harm than good? Would this law or that do more harm than good? Sociologists would be another case for comparison: whilst political philosophers (of the Rawlsian/Kantian variety) are predisposed to see democratic institutions as a requirement of justice, sociologists are likely to ask hard questions about whether this or that society has the social structure or culture that makes democracy possible. Historians might ask whether democracies intervening in non-democratic cultures have more often tended to be benign or, alternatively, genocidal.

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Battered animals have 3,800 shelters.  Battered women have 1,500:

A woman who fundraises for a charity dedicated to helping battered women recently told me about her challenges raising money. Called the Retreat, the charity is located in East Hampton, a posh beach community, full of people who make philanthropy a part of their financial and social lives. Yet she struggles to find donors. In response to her requests, she often hears, “Well, no one I would know would be a victim of domestic violence. Besides, I already give money to the animal rescue charity.” The animal rescue charity is one of the best endowed in the area.

I actually have a lot to say about philanthropy focused on animal abuse in general (please don’t infer from my not going into it that I am against such efforts overall), but I’m too tired this morning to articulate my opinions on the matter in an intelligent and mature way.

So, I’ll just limit my remarks to VOMIT!!!!

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Finally, the Phelps family is a good example of just how nuanced hatred can be:

Whence the hatred of a fellow Baptist, a man who seemed to share so many of Westboro’s grotesque views? The answer lies in the past of Falwell himself and of the Phelps family. Falwell was a shameless racist, and the Phelps family were, incredible as it may seem, pioneers of integration in their hometown of Topeka. The Phelps family’s law practice, headed formerly by the patriarch himself, Fred Phelps, took civil rights cases, often for black plaintiffs who had failed to find representation elsewhere. The Phelpses viewed racial discrimination as un-American and contrary to Biblical teaching, and their work helped to effectuate the Brown decision.

See?  Just because somebody’s entire life consists of waving ‘fag-enabler’ signs at funerals, does not mean you should assume they’re racist, as well.

…here are a bunch of cool photo galleries from around the world!

Iceland, Hotel Everland in Paris, surfing in the Amazon, Artists’ Playground at Sudeley Castle.

(all via Coudal Partners)

And, about Beijing’s Olympic Park:

For a nation that deeply values formal architectural symbolism, creating an iconic shape that simultaneously evokes Heaven (a circle) and the auspicious bird’s nest was genius on the part of the architects. But so mesmerising has it become that nobody mentions the small matter of the 2,800-acre Olympic park and 31 other venues surrounding it. This is probably a good thing. Because the “bird’s nest” might be the ultimate in architectural eye candy, but its neighbours are not. Architecturally at least, the Beijing Olympics are a flop.

(via things magazine)

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It’s not just that Cindy McCain was a drug addict; it’s that she was a real jerk about it:

Cindy McCain stole drugs from a medical charity. It doesn’t get much lower than that. Worse still, she used her employees’ names to obtain drugs, and even enlisted some her her staff to pick up those prescriptions on her behalf. . . . One of the doctors who worked with McCain at AVMT lost his license to practice medicine over the diversion scandal. . . .Ironically, part of her diversion from criminal prosecution involved joining Narcotics Anonymous–which stipulates that an addict must make amends to those she has harmed. That’s not a step Cindy appears to have taken to heart in her dealings with her former emplyee, Tom Gosinski, the main whistleblower in this case.  Gosinski alleges that Cindy fired him from AVMT for knowing too much about her drug habit.  Gosinski also tipped off the DEA to McCain after he left the charity. He came forward in part because he was afraid that Cindy had filed prescriptions in his name, a suspicion that turned out to be justified.  When he sued Cindy for wrongful dismissal, she levied spurious accusations of blackmail against him.

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This is interesting:  a blue/red map of the blogosphere.   (via Crooked Timber)

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On the theme of escapism, 101 Movies to Avoid Watching Before You Die:

But my nomination is more serious: The House of Sand and Fog. I rarely dislike a movie enough to warn people against it, but this is one of the worst, and most unpleasant, movies I’ve watched.

See, now, I thought The House of Sand and Fog was terrific – characters with strong, high-stakes wants in direct opposition to each other, and all that.  But then, I’ve said it before:  I know jack about films.

Man, you should have been in this country ten years ago. Things were different then. None of these Western-themed restaurants. No tourists. These big resort hotels weren’t here. There was no McDonald’s. Just peasants, farm land, mud huts, as far as the eye could see. God, it was beautiful. These people never asked for money. They’d welcome you into their homes, serve you five-course meals cobbled together from all the food the village had managed to collect in a year. They’d offer you their daughters. They’d bathe your feet with their tears. They thought backpackers were gods. It’s not like that anymore – now they just want your money.

This country has lost its soul. It used to be dirty, man. It used to be real. We’re talking raw sewage in the streets. People used to just lie down in it and die. Those were the days. Used to be if you backpacked here, people thought you were hard core. I remember when I’d projectile vomit after every, single meal – and that’s if I could actually find any food. Used to come home covered in parasites and reeking of feces. That was traveling. Nowadays, you can eat the food and drink the water – they call that ‘progress.’ Please. I guess all good things end eventually.

These people used to be vibrant. Working the fields despite advanced pregnancies and open wounds, fleeing the gangs of armed teenagers who’d ride around in trucks at curfew hour, begging you to speak to your government on their behalf. Now look at them all: sitting in their air-conditioned restaurants and giggling at their televisions. Nothing unique about them anymore.

These people used to believe that rocks could tell the future and drinking a quart of ox blood would make you immortal. Now, they know that’s not true. Because we taught them our “knowledge.” So much for culture. Speaking of, the women in this country used to wear metal bands that constricted their waists to fifteen inches, and if they accidentally made noise in public, they cut out their own tongues for shame. They were beautiful and sweet; they asked for nothing. Now they talk and eat, and want money, just like Western women. Spoiled.

If you’d been here ten years ago, all these buildings would have been bombed-out shells. You’d have to crouch down under a cement piling for the night, and sleep with one eye open and a knife under your bedroll. Those were heady times. Now, you can pay for a room, just like every other damn place on Earth. Nobody tries to kill you. Nobody jumps you at the train station. I remember the days when you had to pay a mammoth bribe to get across the border, and another one every time you didn’t want to be thrown in jail or murdered. Now, people just want money in exchange for goods or services. Nine-to-five, punch the clock. I ask you: is that really a better way to live?

This country used to be awesome, but now, it’s just like everywhere else. Case in point: earlier today, I bought some perfectly fresh fruit from a market vendor, and she charged me a reasonable price and thanked me for my business. And I realized, this country’s dead, man – it’s over.

Dear Readers,

I am camping for a week, off the grid entirely. If I do not go insane or get eaten by a bear, I will be back a-postin’ on Monday, June 16th. In the meantime, take deep breaths, hit up the archives, and just try to endure. You’ll be stronger readers for it, I promise — all seven of you.

Love,
Elizabeth

Whatever happened to that scandalous military analysts story that broke in the NY Times, and then utterly disappeared from the dialogue?

[It's] made the standard transition from “we don’t illegally manipulate the news” to “of course we did that, why are you still making a fuss about this old story”.

Also MIA: conservatives’ support for states’ rights:

Since the conservative ascendancy in Washington, many of these same people have stopped praising states’ rights and have begun burying them – not to protect citizens’ rights, but to take them away. The Bush administration and its Congressional allies have helped their friends in industry by enacting weak environmental, health and consumer regulations – and arguing that they wipe out more robust state protections.

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The Christian dating site, Bigchurch.com, is owned by Penthouse:

It’s not like BigChurch isn’t about sex. It’s just more subtle than a site that’s explicitly aimed at swingers. BigChurch’s function is to connect people whose concepts of sex are tied so closely to faith and doctrine that it can be difficult to meet potential partners in more traditional settings.

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There’s racism in Japan, and there’s also a parrot who, when lost, can tell you where he lives.

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I am always looking for ways to get by with less sleep (ideally, I need about 14 hours per night to function properly). I also periodically have problems with insomnia, so I’m always on the lookout for causes: apparently, obese people are short sleepers. Wouldn’t you think it’d be the other way around?

What if all the “sleep hygiene” recommendations mean diddly-squat when the prime reason for one’s poor sleep is simply too much weight?

But then, on the other hand, I usually don’t eat enough, and will often wake up from sheer hunger at 2 or 3 a.m. and have to get out of bed and eat something, just so I can go back to sleep until a decent hour. So, you can’t win.

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Is the Internet ruining humor?

Because the Internet lets normal people make as much noise as funny and original people, the lame humor that usually dead-ends in offices instead spreads like crazy.

The net doesn’t kill humor. People kill humor. (Incidentally, for the very best in original online humor content, click this link!!) [And, while I'm at it, do you agree with Jessa Crispin that "more misanthropes should write travel literature?" If so, then click this link!!]

Also funny:

The Wit and Humor of Immanuel Kant

…and others of the world’s shortest philosophy books.

(via The Morning News)

The Gap is offering a line of T-shirts designed by past Whitney Bienniel artists:

It’s rare that The Gap does anything I’d consider interesting or cool–they are the only store I can think of that would sell Relaxed Fit Skinny Jeans–but I was genuinely impressed with this particular partnership.

Of course, they misidentify the paintings they’re featuring, but you know, they gave it a shot.

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Libertarians might be moving into the ocean soon:

True to his libertarian leanings, Friedman looks at the situation in market terms: the institute’s modular spar platforms, he argues, would allow for the creation of far cheaper new countries out on the high-seas, driving innovation. “Government is an industry with a really high barrier to entry,” he said. “You basically need to win an election or a revolution to try a new one. That’s a ridiculous barrier to entry….”

Much simpler is to move into the ocean. But come on, it won’t be long before the hipsters start wading out, and then the whole cycle begins anew.

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Texas’s AT needed two years and $1.4 million in federal money to discover 8 cases of legitimate voter fraud, in addition to this:

The remaining 18 cases all involved eligible voters casting legitimate mail-in ballots. The ‘fraud’ was that others collected the ballots and deposited them in mailboxes without putting their own name and address on the envelope in which the mail-in ballot was sent. These latter instances were almost all cases involving elderly or disabled voters who could not easily mail their own mail-in ballots. In other words, the great majority of the cases in his meager haul were technical violations that non-politicized prosecutor’s offices most likely never would have pursued.

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Jessa Crispin reviews Mikita Brottman’s The Solitary Vice, in which Brottman blames too much reading for contributing to antisocial behavior:

You start to appreciate the value of reflection and privacy, choosing isolation and solitude over social situations, which become increasingly awkward and difficult to endure. You start to anticipate and avoid occasions that make you bored or frustrated, those in which you’re forced to get involved, where you can’t retreat to the corner with a book. You get used to uncertainty, detachment, and silence, and turn to reading all the more, to make yourself feel less lonely. (Brottman)

Well, this certainly describes my adolescence (substitute blogging for reading, and it also describes my morning), but I wasn’t socially awkward because I read too much. I read too much because I was socially awkward. If books hadn’t existed, I would have taken solace in TV or a mud-puddle, or bouncing a rubber ball off the wall of my bedroom. But I still wouldn’t have shown up at school dances.

I agree that reading too much is a vice, however, and it’s quite handy that people who don’t read much think reading can’t possibly be anything but admirable. Compulsive readers like myself can completely indulge in something that’s basically laziness for us, and reap nothing but praise for it, because for differently wired people, it looks like work.

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Monks are sick and tired of the Dalai Lama’s crap:

Another monk. . . put it this way: “For 50 years, the Dalai Lama said to use peaceful means to solve the problems, and that achieved nothing. China just criticizes him.”

“After he’s gone,” the monk added, “there definitely will be violent resistance.”

This has not been a red-letter year for China. In celebration of China, here are some photos from my trip there in September of 2006:

Having nothing else to do this past weekend, and feeling a little cluttered, I decided to tackle one of those back-burner projects and weed through my wardrobe. Time to toss the things I really haven’t worn in a year…or two…or five. I’m not a snazzy dresser – I’m very much a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of girl – and I’m amazed by the sorts of things that I’ll occasionally acquire, never wear, and hang onto for years. Why do I keep them? Do I secretly think they’re really awesome? In what circumstances would I ever, ever actually don such garments and leave the house? No more. I am going to part with them, and you are all going to witness it. Let’s begin:

Greg Brady’s pants make an excellent shirt.

Why yes, I do take sartorial inspiration from 12-year-old boys in the ’70s. And incidentally, jeans are best when they are shapeless, made of faded denim, and about to fall off your hipbones. Everyone, meet my underwear.

It may think it was a dress.

Once upon a time, this was a sundress (a strange, polyester, layered affair from B. Moss) with a peculiar fluttery skirt. I never wore it because it was heinous…

Ah, the craftsmanship.

…until one day, I came up with the brilliant solution of simply hacking it into a top! Resourceful! It would have undoubtedly have become a staple in my summer wardrobe, except…oooh…

Damn! Get that girl a bra!

Unfortunately, I have never been a lady of effortless buoyancy. It took a lot of years and a lot of tops before I fully owned that fact, but I’ve finally accepted it. Into the garbage with you, odd rag item.

A bra…like THIS??!!

Well, that’s just the least functional tank top ever, isn’t it? Good thing I have four of them, in different colors! (I can never resist a 2-for-$1 deal at Rainbow.)

And speaking of rainbows…

Seriously?

“Elizabeth?”

“…Yesss?”

“Whatcha wearing?”

“Nothing…”

“Oh, Elizabeth.”

“Okay, I know, but just hear me out on this one–”

“No.”

“See, I think it’s kind of funny.”

“Take it off, and back away from it.”

“You don’t think it’s funny? Like, I got it at a thrift store, and it’s all…it’s, it’s funny. Right?”

“If by funny, you mean tragic. Throw it the hell out. I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

Yes, pray you get your eyesight back.

This shirt is multi-functional (provided you’re a habitually drunken retiree living in a Miami seniors’ community): when you’ve finished doing tai chi by the pool, you can wear it right over to the slot machines.

Also, hey fellas — the hott, beige bra is back!

Oh, no! A rabid zebra is on the loose!

Quick – call all the children indoors, and send Atticus out with the shotgun!

Is this a risk I can afford?

So, I’ve been carrying this duster around for about four years now, and I’ve never once worn it. I know it’s hard to see in this photo, but it’s a hunter green, super cheapo duster with brass buttons, rivets (I shit you not), and flowers embroidered on the sides.

I sort of think it’s awesome.

But it has no pockets, it’s way too thin for cold weather and too major for warm, and beyond just that, if you want to make a joke with your clothes, you really have to be in the habit of making statements with them in general. If you wear big, fashiony outfits most of the time, and then you wear something sort of peculiar, people think, “Quirky!”

If, on the other hand, you wear jeans and T-shirts 364 days of the year, and then show up in an embroidered duster, people think, “Aww, poor thing. Don’t stare.”

I never went to Mannes.

This sweatshirt is boring, but I include it because it represents an entire genre of clothes people can’t get rid of: other people’s items. I borrowed this sweatshirt to walk home from a friend’s house in the cold one time, and that is the only time it’s ever been worn. It’s bulky, and I’ll never wear it, but I keep it because it’s not really mine to throw away. We all have clothes like this – mostly stuff some ex never picked up – and we keep them forever, as if three states over and ten years later, that person is suddenly going to show up at the door and be like, “Where’s my flannel?”

Moving on, I also hang onto old work uniforms because, hey, who knows? Maybe one day I’ll once again work in an environment where I have to wear an ill-fitting polyester vest and tie every day! However, this reasoning ignores the crucial fact that if I ever really do have to take such a job again…

Never again.

…I will fucking kill myself.

So, I’m going to err on the side of optimism here, and throw this stuff out.

Why won’t this shirt die?

Here we have a plain blue cotton muscle-T made by Haynes. It’s enormous, bleach-stained and ancient, and it is noteworthy, because not only have I been wearing it since junior high school, but I originally stole it from my mother, who had herself been wearing it since the late ’70s. What is the deal with this Haynes T? Why the endless allegiance? Did this T-shirt at some point save someone in my family’s life? Has it been foreseen that it will bring us great wealth? Was it, like, touched at some point by a Beatle? Into the garbage with it.

Although…

Best. T-shirt. Ever!!

As I was taking the above photo, I began to notice how comfy the shirt was, and how if you sort of squinted, it made my biceps look a little Kate-on-Lost-ish. And I thought, “Why haven’t I been wearing this?” And so, it was spared the trash heap for another year.

I’m seriously wearing it right now.

I have no excuse.

Apparently, not even my sock drawer is free from a horrifying lack of judgment.

I…don’t even know what to say, really. I’ll just apologize, and we’ll move on.

Oooh, strike two!

Yeah, like I’m really ever going to wear navy blue, knitted, over-the-knee socks.

Except that, whoops, I actually did wear them:

Happy New Year’s, boys!!

Moral here being: always get dressed before you get drunk.

These were all the rage on the backpacker trail.

I bought these wrap pants in China, and I should have left them there. However, they provide an excellent opportunity for me to impart a little wisdom I picked up: how to pee in wrap pants without taking them off (assuming you’re using a squat toilet, which, if you’re in America, you won’t be). I had been going through the exhausting procedure of taking these on and off every time I had to pee (especially harrowing during five-second pit stops in the middle of a nine-hour bus ride, when everybody else just pees in the ditch and you have to run all over a village looking wildly for a toilet, and then when you finally find it and convince the owners to let you use it, and haggle over the fee, and get in there, you hear the bus honking and realize you have less than a second to relieve yourself before you’re totally stranded in the middle of Laos…I mean, how many times has this happened to you, am I right?), until an older, wiser backpacker showed me a tip that was one of the most helpful things I learned on the road, and I now pass it along to you:

How To Pee In Wrap Pants: A Tutorial

Step One:

Step One

Knot up one pant-leg, so it’s out of the way, and won’t drag around on the gross, potty-floor.

Step Two:

Step Two

Pull the fabric of the other leg apart at the gap, pull it up as high as you can, and hold it firmly there with your non-dominant hand (which, I’m right-handed, so I’ve got the wrong hand going in this photo).

Step Three:

Step Three: Break it down, now!

Finally, go into a deep, wide-legged squat, and using your dominant hand, grab the crotch of your pants and underwear and haul all of it way over to one side. You know the rest.

Incidentally, I realize I’m not even squatting in this photo, and look a lot less like I’m demonstrating Step Three and more like I’m slam-dancing in a diaper, or perhaps playing Puck in an under-funded Community Parks’ production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but this was the only photo I took of this step that didn’t look frankly pornographic (and has the added advantage of my face not even being in the shot). While I may not have much dignity left, I have just scrap enough to give me pause before unleashing a photo of myself grabbing around in my crotchtal region onto the Internet. I’m sure I’ll be grateful for this foresight one day in the future, when I decide to finally get serious and run for public office.

Well done, me. Well done, all around.

Apparently, Cambodia is cracking down on happy pizza. I never sampled any happy pizza (or happy anything else) during my travels in Southeast Asia, and I’m not just saying that because my parents read this blog. I’m saying it because it’s true, because, as I’ve mentioned before, I am a total freaking snoozer of a person.

However, I can advise that if you find yourself in Cambodia and missing the easy access to backpacker pizza, simply hop North of the border into Laos, where you will find not only pot-laced items, but also opium- and shroom-inspired dishes aplenty. Although, as far as the opium in Laos goes, everybody I met who’d tried it said the same thing: ‘I guess it was alright. I’m not really sure if I got high, though.’ The drugs in SE Asia are as hit-or-miss as most everything else there, it seems.

I am a data-entry clerk by day. By night, I watch a lot of television, and sometimes I go over to my friend Brian’s house and watch television there. I do not play sports, nor do I enjoy things. I have a college degree in history, but now I enter the circulation numbers of various newspapers in spreadsheet format. Like, how many copies of a paper were dropped off at each location, and how many were picked back up at the end of the…never mind, I don’t care about it, and I’m sure it is not interesting to you, either, unless you are stupid. I am single, but I don’t date, because there are no available women at the place where I work. I hope that an available woman might look at this page, and email me. Brian said that that might happen.

I have never traveled, and I don’t often eat out at restaurants. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I eat at Peter’s, which is an Italian place that also serves gyros. I like gyros. Sort of. I mean, I’m not wild about them. Once Brian was emailed by a woman in his area who wanted to go to a movie with him. He made a date with her, but she did not show up. But maybe she did show up, and he just didn’t recognize her. Sometimes people look different from their pictures. My picture is of me in college. I look the same now, except I have lost a little weight. Most people gain weight as they get older, but I have lost it. I think it is because I used to go out drinking a lot in college, but now I do not do that, because Brian doesn’t drink.

There is one nice thing about my job, and that is that we have free coffee, and there are flavored coffees. I don’t like the flavored coffees, but it is nice to have the option. I don’t like too many options, though, because sometimes you can be paralyzed by choice. Something similar happened to me after college. When I graduated, I wasn’t sure which way to go, and that was an upsetting realization. I enjoy simplicity, to a reasonable degree. I have only three colors in my wardrobe, which seems to me to be a perfect choice. It would be dull and a bit insane to have only black clothing (though I have considered it), but I have found that the more colors introduced, the earlier I have to get up to pick. Currently, I have black pants, and jeans, and green and blue tops. That is what I consider a reasonable wardrobe.

I enjoy sleeping very much. It is healthy, satisfying, free of charge, and can be enjoyed by everyone. If I could, I would probably sleep all the time. I would say sleeping is my favorite thing to do. I have sometimes thought that a dog would be nice to have. But I worry about dogs. Even just thinking about sleeping makes me happy. Sometimes about three in the afternoon, I think about how I will sleep later, and I feel good from my head to my toes. If I were going to travel (and I don’t think I will), one place I might like to go is Prague. Brian has been to France, Spain and the U.K.

The thing about dogs is, they are kind of like slaves. I worry that a dog might be deeply unhappy with his overall life, but so simply pleased by whatever food or affection is coming his way currently that he can forget about it for the time being. But if that is the case, that dog would be better off dead. Brian has a cat, and the cat seems reasonably happy to me, and also not like a slave, because I’m pretty sure that cat could get away from Brian if she took a notion. I do not like cats, however; they remind me of a series of nightmares I had as a boy.

One movie I love is Dog Day Afternoon. ATTICA!!!

I do not much follow the news, but Brian was once on the news because he got into an accident. He was driving a car, but was very drunk, and he ran into the side of a school bus. It was 8:30 a.m. No children were hurt, but Brian got into a lot of trouble anyway. And I think that was right. That was two years ago, and Brian stopped drinking right after, and so I stopped drinking, too, because he was my drinking buddy. I don’t think there’s too much harm in drinking if you can leave off when it’s time, which I can, but Brian is an alcoholic.

I didn’t much care for school myself, but I didn’t hate it, either. The nice thing about school was lunch. And routine. I drive a Buick Sentry, a red one. It’s alright; I don’t much care about cars. And I have only been on a plane a couple of times. If a woman reads this and would be interested in going to Peter’s with me, I will be there at 8:00 p.m. this coming Friday. I will be wearing a blue top and black pants, and I look just like the photo above, except I am a little thinner.