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From NY's Daily News: "A raging sea of protesters opposed to President Bush and the Iraq war washed over Seventh Ave. yesterday in the biggest display of dissent at a political convention in U.S. history."
(Emphasis mine.)
Nothing like an uplifting bit of news to start off the week, eh?
This provided me a hearty Friday morning chuckle (from the NY Daily News): During next week's RNC, "Boy George will be hosting a 'going-away' party for President Bush at the Coral Room."
See, I knew there was a reason I liked Boy George. Apart from the brilliance of "Karma Chameleon," that is. Ooh, and "The Crying Game." Brilliant.
Watched All That Jazz last night, loving Ann Reinking and wondering what the hell happened to Roy Scheider? Has he made his obligatory B-list actor appearance on Law & Order or is he trapped on some reality show island talent show where they vote you off if you gag on your live cockroach breakfast or your plastic surgery fails to make you even marginally less hideous? The last thing I remember Roy in was The Myth of Fingerprints, that movie where he played Julianne Moore and Noah Wyle's rather lecherous dad. Not a bad movie, actually. But I always wondered if it stole its name from the Paul Simon song or vice versa. Or is it (like a gazillion other modern phrases) derived from ol' man Shakespeare? Who the hell knows?
Well, it's obvious I am all over the place today. Naturally, it's Friday and I'm cheeky, likely the result of the sugar high I've enjoyed since 8am. Oh yeah, and we here on the north coast can expect "record high" temperatures today. Yes, folks, believe it or not, we may hit 75 degrees. Christ, I sure hope we poor souls can manage to stay cool with Satan's fire scorching the Earth at our feet. Global warming's a bitch, ain't it?
So, Al Franken urges me to shout "No way, dude!" at the top of my lungs when Dubya accepts his party's nomination next week. The aging Valley Girl in me finds this very amusing. However, the New Yorker in me wishes I could instead join Manhattanites in screaming "Fuggedaboudit!"
MSNBC.com reports today that "traditional pollster's wisdom" shows two-thirds of undecided voters ultimately vote against the incumbent. I find this extremely interesting (and promising), don't you?
This morning, two hosts on our eclectic local radio station were discussing last night's David Byrne concert, a show I would like to have attended were it not for a lack of funds (I'll spare you my whining about the outrageous cost of concert tickets). Anyway, the show was apparently fantastic, Byrne having invited the Tosca Strings along on his tour and playing material spanning three decades. Listening to these two hosts go on about Byrne's genius, I picked up a fascinating tidbit. Following last night's performance of the Talking Heads tune "And She Was," Byrne revealed that the song was written for a high school friend who used to drop acid and lay naked in the grass outside the Yoo-Hoo chocolate milk factory. Betcha never knew that, eh? And how cool would it be to have a Yoo-Hoo factory in your hometown? All my hometown's produced is pornography and a handful of B-list TV stars (almost one and the same, aren't they?).
Anyway, back to the issue of overpriced concert tickets. Arugably, the biggest concert of my high school years was U2's Joshua Tree tour, which came to the L.A. Coliseum (home to the former L.A. Raiders) and for which my friends camped overnight outside Tower Records to buy tickets. Tickets we considered exorbitantly priced at $22.50. That was the going rate for a big city arena show in 1987. Fucking peanuts considering that amount barely covers cocktails at today's shows (not that, aside from a rare exception, I have any desire to attend the equivalent of a big arena show). I suppose that, to teenagers earning minimum wage ($3.35 an hour), $22.50 was what one might call a shitload of money. Not so when you consider that I could more readily afford concerts when I was earning $3.35 an hour than I can 15 years later, bringing in exponentially more. Sigh.
Meanwhile, I had obtained my long-coveted driver's license only a few weeks before the Joshua Tree concert and had yet to master L.A.'s freeways (which, at that time, were considerably less nightmarish than now, but still intimidating for a 16-year-old). Attending U2's show would mean navigating at least two high-speed, kill-or-be-killed main arteries transversing L.A. from our suburban corner of the city to the wilds of downtown. Since my '73 Pontiac station wagon was the only vehicle that could hold our huge group (my more fortunate friends drove cute, compact cars), I was naturally elected chauffeur for the Joshua Tree festivities. Yes, Bono, I practiced and perfected my incipient driving skills to watch your pale, Celtic ass belt pretentious lyrics in all your mulleted, leather-trousered glory. Surely it was my effort alone that led to your lengthy career, inordinant wealth and imagined political clout. So where's the gratitude?
Thanks to the NY Daily News for pointing me toward the Shut it Down website. I urge everyone, especially my friends scattered about New York City, to check it out.
Six months after leaving New York, I have not kicked my habit of reading the NY Daily News each day, nor do I ever fail to pick up the Sunday NY Times (though the experience of reading it 3,000 miels away is considerably different). I can't say I'm more interested in what's happening in New York than in the world immediately around me, but hell, our daily local paper typically maxes out at 10-12 pages, not counting the Sports section, which goes unread by me 99% of the time. I'd not attempt to deny my unceasing interest in news coming out of the city I still consider home, whatever longing it may inspire.
By the same token, I continued reading the Los Angeles Times regularly for at least a year after returning to New York in 1998. Part of the semi-nomadic lifestyle, I suppose, is the desire to remain abreast of the local news for more than one region, a habit even more widely practiced by immigrants seen constantly on the subway or about town reading El Diario , Ha'aretz or any number of foreign periodicals. Such continuing connection with one's former home does not necessarily supercede interest in one's current state of residence, I have found through experience.
Alas, there are no foreign papers to be found in my little, liberal coastal enclave. I'm fortunate to find the Sunday NY Times each week at the local co-op market. And, thankfully, there's no shortage of places to snap up the excellent San Francisco Chronicle, when Internet news just isn't enough. There's just nothing that compares to having that newspaper in my hands, that musty smell, the charcoal stains on my fingertips. I only wish I could still read it on the subway.
So, thanks to rhubarbpie, I've learned the story below is false. Though disappointing for Bush-haters, I'll admit the truth restores my faith in the future of humanity. Click here for the whole story. I won't delete my earlier entry, however. Despite its inaccuracy, it's simply too delicious.
This came to me by way of an email from a friend and unfortunately I don't have time at the moment to confirm its veracity (though I myself have little trouble believing it). If you have time to investigate, please do let me know whether or not such incredible ignoramity actually occured.
"Newsweek reports that George W. Bush, appearing before a right- to-life rally in Tampa, Florida, on June 17, stated:
'We must always remember that all human beings begin life as a feces. A feces is a living being in the eyes of God, who has endowed that feces with all the rights and God-given blessings of any other human being.'
Bush repeated his error at least a dozen times before realizing he'd used the word 'feces' when he meant to say 'fetus.'"
My dear friend Craig has returned to Iraq, this time serving in Fallujah for a period of seven months. Like all his family and friends, I'm keeping him in my thoughts.
Quite emotional this morning as I realized yesterday was six months since I left New York. Six months. It's extremely hard to believe. I'd be lying like a Bush staffer if I said I don't miss Manhattan and my life there. Often so deeply it physically hurts. Sometimes so deeply I begin to frantically plot my east coast return. And when I say I miss New York, I mean the city as all-encompassing label for everything combined into one gargantuan ball: not only the sights and sounds, but the daily grind, the sense of immortality, the precious nearness of friends and family. And my way of life for six years.
Of course I started out a New Yorker, born in Brooklyn, where my entire extended family landed and settled in the years after World War II. I've actually lived in three NYC boroughs, if you count the four-plus years of my early life spent in the snowy suburban idyll of Staten Island. I was in New York when the Twin Towers went up and I was there when they fell. Eternally sunny Los Angeles provided the backdrop for the 20-year lapse in my New York residency, a mostly happy childhood leading to an unfulfilling early adulthood colored by a growing desire to move back to the east coast and explore life on the vibrant isle of Manhattan.
Yes, I miss New York City and my life there horribly. But I'd be lying if I said life wasn't good for me here in northern California. My job is fantastic, my friends are positively lovely, I've loved every minute spent with my brother and sister-in-law, I've dropped 10 pounds simply adopting a moderately healthier lifestyle (easy to do when there's no late-night Chinese food delivery or slice of Ray's on every block), and I'm infinitely more relaxed than I was while navigating the ups and downs of metropolitan life. This regardless of the fact that--even in NYC--I was always the most relaxed person I know.
On a daily basis, I breathe intoxicatingly fresh air, feast my eyes upon gorgeous natural scenery, share open roads with relatively few other drivers and operate at a slower pace than most of the country. Yet I dearly miss the frenetic pace and sights of the concrete jungle, relying on public transportation, sharing my commute with hundreds of interesting strangers while devouring a great book. My precious reading time is sorely deficient since I no longer spend hours each week hurtling through darkened underground tunnels.
No one here worries much about what today's terror alert level is, although nearly everyone I've met is well-traveled and exceedingly well-informed with regards to current events. Instead, people here are happy to tell you which local animals are threatened by extinction, when the last significant earthquake hit, where the Sierra Club meeting takes place and what time to expect high tide at Moonstone Beach.
For those who doubt just how liberal this area is, yesterday's newspaper profiled a local man displaying what is quite possibly the only "Bush/Cheney '04" bumper sticker in the entire county. The poor lad has had his car scratched, dented, spit upon and pelted with eggs and tomatoes. While I'm admittedly no fan of Dubya n' Dick, I'm sure there are better ways to express one's political beliefs.
It seems as though there is little that doesn't exacerbate my melancholy longing for the city I called home all those years. It's too soon for nostalgia, though that's generally what influences my exploration into the great "life in New York vs. life in Humboldt" debate. You can take the girl out of the city, but no fucking way can you take the city out of the girl. Still, regardless of the things and people I yearn for, I'm fully aware that the path of my life is too complex to map out based solely on where I choose to lay my head. Today, it's Humboldt County. Tomorrow, who knows?