MKP-Hearts-NYC

The following was Gigantor's response to the Honor Code essay prompt on one of his college applications. I'm sure you'll agree that they'd be crazy not to take him. And of course, crazy once they had him.

The Honor System And My Benefits From It

There is nothing I love more than systems. Ask me to join a group, I won’t be happy if there isn’t a charter. Forming an organization? There had better be checks and balances if I’ll have any part of it. I try to apply these basic standards of organization to every aspect of my life. The day I get to form a League of some sort will be a grand one indeed, but until then I just have to fight for the little victories.

One triumph of organization I’m particularly proud of is my appointment as Chancellor of the High School It’s Academic (the inter-school quiz-bowl) team. No sooner had I taken office than I established the It’s Academic Senate and ordered the creation of a budget sub-committee to investigate venues for the application of our funds. Unfortunately, not all of life can be so bureaucratic. Most people don’t understand the fundamental importance of a complex division of all tasks into squads, teams, and gloriously titled positions. When I read the Honor System constitution for ThisCollege, however, I knew that I had found kindred spirits.

I believe that I had got no further than Section 3, Article 2 of the Honor System (detailing the creation and duties of the Honor Investigator) than I fell in love with the writers of the System. What a concept! Heretofore in my life discipline and character were simply left to the masses to execute. Although certain modes of behavior could be banned or penalized, there was hardly any framework as such to oversee the execution of justice, to guarantee the perdition of the dishonored. [ThisCollege], however, has provided a bridge out of the inane chaos of non-bureaucracy to the hope of a 16-member pan-class Honor Council (overseen by a duly appointed Honor Council president).
ThisCollege feels as I do the need to regulate with Byzantine efficiency the turning of every wheel in society, and, furthermore, realizes the importance of words like “Investigator” and “Appellate” when describing job functions.

I would benefit from ThisCollege’s honor code because I would be operating in an environment where people loved bureaucracy and due process for its own sake as much as I do. My creative energies could finally be loosed in pursuit of that ultimate goal: the complete regulation of every human action and the establishment of multi-word titles for every task currently undertaken by man. My self-confidence would soar as my joy at the classification of minutiae was finally encouraged by the Institution of my education. I would finally find real and lasting happiness, having found the only corner of the world that had embraced itemized lists more quickly than I had.

That is how I would benefit from living under the honor system at ThisCollege.

I did wake up at 4 am and spend the next 3 hours trying to simultaneously dry out and hydrate my sinuses.

MamaMKP refused to induce a coma OR tell me about the rabbits so I'm watching Arrested Development season 2.

*sniffle*

The concert went well - 24 hours of vocal rest and I'd stored up just enough chord function to get through the concert and my brief (but extremely memorable) solo. The great thing about church acoustics is they forgive all manner of sins. Up close I sounded like Lauren Bacall on a bad, bad day, but out in the hall I apparently sounded just fine.

A buddy on facebook from my Young Folks Choir days asked for some elaboration on my box o'tricks I mentioned yesterday, so here 'tis, with some more expansions:

Basically here's what I try when I start getting sick - hot shower with lots of steam, hot soup, hot tea, and I run a humidifier at night.

Then I have a bunch of meds to choose from:

• Mucinex (regular and DM depending on whether it's chest or nasal congestion),
• Vicks 44 (I like their dry-cough syrup),
• Ibuprofen for body aches and fever,
• Afrin (or any other nasal spray) if my sinuses are blocked
• Vicks Vaporub
• Vitamins
• Plenty of tissues and purell

The key is flushing out your system with water, coughing up the grossness that clogs your larynx and getting as much sleep as possible. Also, staying on top of the doses you're taking, and taking more meds every 4-6-12 hours (depending on which ones, obvi)

All of my medicines are alcohol free. Benedryl knocks me unconscious, sudafed doesn't help with cold/flu symptoms (but I usually have that and claritin around for allergy attacks) and nyquil...forget it. Way too booy. Tylenol does a nice cold/flu remedy as well - and has daytime/nighttime varieties but it's not as strong as the Mucinex/Vicks combo.

Vocal rest helps too - aside from random mumbling I did to myself when I woke up in the middle of the night, by the time my concert rolls around I'll have had about 26 hours of rest. Whenever I've got a throat-focused illness, it's like I have a limited amount of Voice Time to use, and if you can save it up while keeping your throat as moistened and hydrated as possible, you'll be in better shape.

K-cup and my constant g-chatting, even when we're across the hall from eachother, totally comes in handy at times like this.

OneRepublic's "Good Life," off their new album Waking Up all of which I love and suggest you run out and get immediately.


And Kate Earl's "Melody" - this was a free download from iTunes a few weeks ago and I love it. I'm such a ball of fuzzy positivity sometimes you'd never know I occasionally fight down the urge to kick noisy teenagers in the back of the knee on the subway.

See, typically when one gets sick, one is supposed to feel totally brain-fogged - too drowsy and zonked out to notice that life is passing by. Because right now, aside from some slight body aches and a sore throat that imperils tomorrow's choir concert, I am totally fine. And therefore sentient enough to experience the impotent rage that comes from being a brain in an ailing body.

I've been doing the random sniffling/coughing thing all week, but that's to be expected when it's misty-drizzly, windy and otherwise coldifying. Somewhere between the burritos K-Cup and I got at Chipotle and the seats we claimed at the Union Square movie theater after visiting the Cupcake Cafe, I Got Sick. We got home after The Fantastic Mr. Fox (which was awesome but I need to see again because I slept through the middle 1/3) and I curled up in bed with my netflix and felt The Sickness creep up on me. By the time I got to sleep my throat was scratchy and swallowing was difficult, and when I woke up it was worse. I sounded like a baritone in the shower. I did some cautious warm-ups while sucking back ramen broth and tea, whipped out my Voice Major's Box o'Throat-based Medicine and headed to our dress rehearsal.

Where I was ordered by a doctor in the soprano section not to talk for the next 24 hours.

I don't know if you guys haven noticed, but I'm like, a Very Vocal Verbal Person. My blog looks like this because I think and talk like this. (You know how in The King And I , the King's wives thought Mrs. Anna was shaped like a bell because of her dress? Well, she wasn't. But I basically am. Verbally. Shaped like this. This makes perfect sense in my head.)

I stopped by CVS to replenish the Voice Major's Box o'Throat based medicine, wordlessly grumbling to myself that it was freaking difficult to find tissues in this stupid store especially given the current Major Crisis we're all so afraid of (i.e. dying of the Swine Flu). I briefly drafted some lead-in copy for the nightly newscast after I, MKP, who had been effecting real change doing a year of service with a team of Do-Gooders, am struck down by the pandemic sweeping the nation.

Then I figured the people who die from H1N1 probably had other health issues. And set aside the teleprompter notes in favor of some Vicks dry cough medicine and mucinex.

K-Cup was good enough to accompany me on a Jay and Silent Bob style outing, on which my only link to the spoken world was the Cranium Doodlepad I grabbed in lieu of a notebook on our way to the corner diner. I asked the waitress, via scribbled note, for a giant bowl of chicken noodle soup and a vat of it to take home and some hot tea, and we proceeded to still be the most normal regulars in the corner diner. Our compatriots included a seriously old couple and a middle-aged me from the future (she came in dressed head to toe in Mets regalia, sat across from one of her ancient parents, delivered one invective-laced rant after another....it was enlightening), a woman whose dinner companion was hidden by a corner of the counter, so it looked like she was talking to herself, and another odd/old couple who didn't say a word to eachother. K-Cup talked, I scribbled notes to be housed in future MKP touring exhibits, it was a good time.

* * * *

In other news, the old lady who caught me climbing over the back alley fence appears to have moved out, and in her place are some people who had the nerve to 1) throw themselves a housewarming party on a night I wanted to sleep early; B) renovate their place on a morning I wanted to sleep in; sixth and lastly) play guitar in the room directly above mine; and to conclude) SUCK.

Mariella Pizza on 8th ave does a brisk lunchtime business - step in the door, the guys in Giants hats are demanding to know what you're having. "One slice pepperoni, one slice sausage, to go" I call out, and my friend says she'll have the same. He turns to his pizza slicer and announces

"One pepperoni, one sausage, two times."

We snag a table and he manages to shout across the entire restaurant but it's totally obvious he's talking to us "Ladies, you want drinks? And you're to stay now?"

Two diet cokes, two excellent slices later, he comes over to apologize but say he needs the table and we've got to book it.

*whew*

And that dating is basically an exercise in "Who Can Go Without Committing a Dealbreaker The Longest." AYF and Jersey boy were basically in a tie, except it looked like AYF was withdrawing from competition. Aaand then Jerseyboy made one of those first official date faux pas that make you question what's so great about other human beings anyway because clearly they've become overrated....And it shook me up. Nobody likes to hear the ramblings of a hopeless hopeful romantic, so I wallowed and moped and stayed in with the lights turned off and watched an entire disc of The Big Bang Theory and omitted the Most Important Rebound Technique Ever - pints of ice cream. Which is why the wallowing lasted a day longer than it should have - it became an existential crisis instead of just a Boys Suck Backlash.

BUT! The other best rebound technique is of course the hair of the dog...aka AYF. He agreed to only wear his A-Rod as Centaur t-shirts every other day, and I agreed not to doodle Mrs. Daniel Murphy on paper napkins every time we hung out, so progress is TBD on that front.

NOW. Back to the important stuff. Aka my fabulous life.

* * * * *

At last Sunday's Madmen season finale party, I got to meet and snag a picture with Paul Kinsey (Michael Giadis), while dressed as Joanily as possible (The finale? ZOMG. Can't even TELL YOU how much I love this show).

Thursday I got to usher at The Women's Project, where Rachel Katz nee Menken was appearing in Or, a "postmodern Restoration comedy" that was hilarious and clever. It captured that same theatrical magic Eddie Izzard did where it created an illusion that you then accepted as solid fact - there were only 3 actors playing as many as 7 characters, and I was still convinced they were going to walk in on eachother...er... themselves. Thoroughly delightful, and the house manager is fantastic (Hi Seth!).

The MKP family unit descends on Manhattan next week - I'm singing in a concert on Sunday, for which the mater will be in attendance, and we're reviving the MKP Thanksgiving Traditions with a play (Our Town) and a musical (I think we settled on Next to Normal but it's likely a gametime decision). There will also probably be museums and a movie or two, plus I still need to see Ragtime and Finian's Rainbow and Billy Elliot and In The Heights. Plus, only Gigantor has been introduced to HousingWorks, El Museo Del Barrio has just reopened, mom still hasn't seen my apartment ---

Wait.... my family will be in my apartment. FoodieRoomie keeps the kitchen exquisitely clean but my room...uh.... let's just say Rosie the Robot was supposed to come over after she finished Jane and Elroy's playroom but ...uh.... may have taken a left at Albequerque and uh...

How about those players of barbarism football? They sure are...uh... likely to wind up paralyzed, huh?! LOOK OVER HERE:

...and those who like women, approve of women's right to have choices, choices in general, not throwing women's health by the wayside as soon as it looks like politics are trumping workable healthcare once again?

We agree? Good.

Now take action.

Abortion is a medical procedure. When a woman is not in a position to desire or care for a child, it is a necessary one. Last time I checked, medical insurance was intended to cover the cost of medical procedures.

I don't believe anti-choicers should be allowed to bring their religious opposition to a procedure that allows women to choose whether they will carry and bear a child, and I certainly don't want universal healthcare at the expense of my right to exercise my options.

So, the anticipation of a cute guy to flirt with and yet another awesome sober dance party lured me out to Williamsburg tonight (this would not be Colonial Williamsburg, btw. There has been some confusion recently. This is Brooklyn's Williamsburg. Former home of Francie Nolan and the Roeblings, current home of skinny jeans, hipster fedoras, tiny vests, ironic sunglasses, smug people, willfully unfinished factory-turned-lofts and more chuck taylors than a vintage street basketball convention). Minutes after getting off the subway I was texting K-cup "It's awful - aaaugh"

It would be difficult for me to tell you exactly what I find so horrendous - ....but I'll try. I think it's because I know what a poor neighborhood looks like...and I know what a neighborhood full of status-symbol-seeking money-havers who want to look poor looks like. And it looks like Williamsburg.

But, the dance was fun - lots of younger people, plus the guy I willingly took the L train for was there and we had a great time (Acceptable Yankee Fan and I are just friends...if Yankee fans can be said to understand that societal relationship). He'd driven in from New Jersey with a friend (yes, herein lies the obstacle to a significant relationship with JerseyBoy. It's the Jersey thing. However, he does work in the city and assures me he does not in fact have to take a plane to Manhattan, so there may yet be hope) and after our joints began to fail we drove over the Williamsburg bridge (seriously, the ugliest bridge of all) to Katz's Deli. Yes, the famous one.

I'd walked by it plenty of times but never actually been in - you walk in, they give you a ticket, you join one of the 8 lines along the counter (they initially look like all one line. They are not - don't be fooled. There is one counter for hotdogs, one for the soda fountain, a bunch for sliced sandwiches and one to pay or buy soda or get your leftovers wrapped up).

We queue'd up in front of one of the sandwich guys, and I attempted to order an egg cream and potato pancakes. He told me I'd have to go to two different lines, one at the front and one at the back, to get those things.

So then I tried to order a roast beef sandwich on rye. He looked at me and said "That's a cold sandwich - you really want me to make you a cold sandwich? Sure, I'll make you a tourist sandwich if you want, but just taste this nice cut here and tell me if I'm wasting this whole thing."

I tried some of the slab of pastrami he'd cut for us and realized until this moment I did not know what meat was supposed to taste like. We quickly agreed we'd each have a pastrami sandwich. Yes, please to pickles - half sours and sours. The guys were even gallant enough to brave the egg cream line for me - I have now had a vanilla egg cream, which I don't prefer to chocolate, but which is awesome. Neither Jersey Boy had ever had one, and I had to explain that nobody knows why they're called egg creams though there are two proprietors who claim credit, and no, there's no egg involved.

We sat down to eat, admired all the helpfully labeled pictures of celebrities on the walls, paid on our way out with the tickets the slicer guy had marked up and I still have half a sandwich for tomorrow because they were freaking HUGE.

The slicer was so classically NY because he'd give me what I wanted if I really wanted it...but he was pretty sure he knew that's not what would make me happy. And the line about having to "waste" the rest of the cut was hilarious - the place was packed, and if he didn't use it for one of our sandwiches, it'd be the next guys in line. And then as he handed us our tray he reminded us not to forget him, as he'd just made us three lovely sandwiches, to spur us into dropping a few bucks in his tip jar. So much nonverbal communication going on as well, between the guys at the counter, and between the guy at the counter and me when I took my half sandwich back up to get wrapped.... It was awesome. It may have ruined all other pastrami for me. And all other deli's.

Back in the day, "dating" was passing notes in class, holding hands in the hall and talking on the phone for hour after mundane hour. But that's because you already knew the guy from gym class or orchestra or whatever, and most of the groundwork had already been set down while running laps or tuning up before class.

Out here in Reasonable Facsimile of a Grownup Land, I'm starting from scratch. And because today is The Future and there is technology, this means a couple of different avenues are available.

If I meet someone and learn their full name immediately, and can manage to work facebook into the conversation, I can probably look them up online, dash off a friend request and google stalk to whatever is deemed a reasonable degree (varies based on how much I like the guy already and whether he has a blog or I'm fishing for 10th grade track and field records).

If all I get (or give) is a first name and a phone number, my options are more limited. For a long time this meant either try to sustain a conversation on the phone when you don't really know what you have in common yet, or just calling to arrange a date which I actually find more awkward because it feels like I'm on the verge of a conversation, which I should probably save for "coffee or whatever" so we don't run out of things to say then.

But now there is texting, a blessing/curse for the noncommittal and the overanalytical alike. My last "whatever" abruptly ended because NotRemotelyRoyal LessThanCharming just stopped responding to texts where before he'd been all about the 160 character communique. It's beyond annoying to have to factor "Did I include one too many "haha" in my last text?!?!!" into your analysis of What Went Wrong, which is in fact why I now Refuse to analyze or participate in my friends' analyses of text messages in general.

However, not all mantypes suck. And you can have actual conversations by text message that bridge the gap between "can I have your number?" and the first date get-to-know-yous. When I had my first date with the Acceptable Yankee Fan (AYF) on Saturday, we had already texted back and forth for two solid days about favorite movies, books, travel, trading baseball jabs, a light overview of politics and trivia questions design to both impress and stump one another. And it was awesome, largely because we were texting at the same rate. I wasn't fighting the urge to cling desperately to my phone hoping it would light up and buzz encouragingly because...it was already buzzing. We had an ongoing conversation, punctuated by necessary pauses and free of the constraints of gchat where instant response is implied, and as a result when we finally met up, conversation was easy and brisk and wide-ranging and...

Who am I kidding, this whole "What Dating Means Today" entry was just an excuse to giggle and announce that I met someone and I think I like him. I mean, like like him. And one of the ways I know is that we have the same attitude about communication. In 7th grade, this would have meant he looked for me between classes. Today, it just means that he's responsive when I feel the need to interrogate him as to his favorite Coen Brothers movie. And fortunately, it's Raising Arizona.

So, life has been busy.

The mornings all start relatively the same - get woken up by NPR, shower, go back to bed, ride the train to work.

If I get a seat when I switch to the express, I relax, watch a video on my iPod or read or do a crossword while listening to This American Life, reflecting on how interesting people are and how nice it is to glimpse the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge every day on my commute

If I do not get a seat, I sigh and try to signal to the people in my jurisdiction of seats that I'm frail. If nobody gets off at Canal Street I begin to resent them for a) not working closer to their house, b) not knowing Who I Am, and c) being so smug about already having a seat. If nobody gets off at Union Street I begin to burn with sullenness and remember that this is why I never believe guys who say they believe in chivalry because clearly they are frauds. I'll finally get a seat at Herald Square and try to regain some of my bon vivantitude.

Monday I succumbed to the eye contact and “Are you a New Yorker?” pitch of a guy promoting a new salon (I'm such an easy mark). I heard him out and laughed at his jokes, so when I had to tell him I was doing a year of service and couldn't afford 80% off a ridiculous sum, he said he could let me have the whole salon package for $32, which provided it didn't end with me being dumped into the East River, was actually a good deal. Then “for being such a laugher” he gave me two free tickets to a comedy show on Thursdays. Made a hair appointment for Wednesday, went to choir, discovered I have actually made a choir friend to ride the subway with. Life is good.
 

Tuesday I noticed that none of my coworkers say hi to me when I enter the office and they're already working. I may no longer announce my presence like I did in preschool - “Hi, it's me! It's MKP!!” but I like to think some of that enthusiasm and charisma of those early days still presages my entrance. I sulk about this until someone actually does say hi to me, then I get annoyed at being interrupted. Go to a Mentor-mentee program introduction dinner at Dos Caminos and eat chips and salsa, plantain empanadas, taco salad, mole enchiladas and sample 8 different desserts one of which was dipping things in chocolate. Really felt like I could make a difference in this organization as a mentor. For example, I can teach inner city youth that when the waitress brings over 8 different desserts, don't fill up on the fondue right off the bat – try the giant slab of chocolate cake or the pumpkin cake or the apple empanada first. And no, that's not green tea ice cream. This is a Mexican restaurant. It's pistachio. Don't make the same mistakes I made.
 

Wednesday I decide that maybe the problem is me, and I should greet all my coworkers when I come in, get the day off on the right foot. But I stop for a commiserating “Wednesday is awful” Dunkin Donuts run and the guy mishears “one orange frosted and one pink” as “one pumpkin and one plain,” so I have to explain I don't want the one that tastes like pumpkin, I want the one that looks like it ought to taste like pumpkin, and then I want a pink one, which is the opposite of plain. So when I finally get to the office I don't really feel that it is a good morning and opt out of saying hi to anybody. After work I re-run into a guy I met a few weeks ago who, aside from being a Yankees fan, is cute and funny and asks for my number. There is some discussion of an impending sporting event. Went to the new salon for a haircut, got cute bangs and did not get dumped in either tributary.

Thursday Acceptable Yankee Fan (AYF) texts me to say how good it felt to wake up a World Champion. I have been needled in my office incessantly by gloating coworkers, but text back that I'm the closest to being willing to say congratulations to him than I've been all day, which he says he can work with. I resolve that the key to flirtation is to stay detached and uninvested for as long as possible to keep the crazybrain sedated. Attend Mike Birbiglia's stand-up show, I Am In The Future, Also and laugh like a fiend. When I get home AYF texts me to tell me to turn on channel 2, which is actually my channel 9, and it's three Yankee players on Letterman. I rescind my near-congratulations and we text back and forth about baseball and stand up. I finally got my new Netflix and start with one little episode Gilmore Girls at 11.But then Luke and Lorelai break up over some stupid stunt Emily pulled and I have to keep watching until they get back together three episodes later at 2:45 am.

Friday calls for a TGIF Dunkin' Donuts visit. I begin to suspect the cashier of deliberately mishearing “pumpkin” in order to push the new product, because there's no way you mishear “apples and spice” and “chocolate frosted.” Tonight I'm going to see Ewan McGregor and George Clooney in “Men Who Stare At Goats” with a friend, tomorrow I'm going to a fancypants sober dance and Sunday is the Mad Men finale which I will be watching in company with other enthusiastic dorks in a bar on Madison Ave. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a parade to ignore.

The workers expected to find bones as they dug below Washington Square Park. After all, the remains of as many as 20,000 people are believed to be lying below. But as the backhoe scooped away earth last Friday, it instead revealed a 210-year-old gravestone, the writing still clear.

“Here lies the body of James Jackson,” the inscription declares, “who departed this life the 22nd day of September 1799 aged 28 years native of the county of Kildare Ireland.”

This is so cool - they've been able to track him down in city death records. He was either a watchman or a grocer, he was buried in Washington Square Park when it was still a graveyard for New York's poor, and he might have died during an outbreak of yellow fever. This is why history and archeology are so freaking cool.

THIS guy said, "Of course we're going to win"???

(What Rollins said on Leno was: Of course, we’re going to win. If we’re nice, we’ll let it go to 6, but I think 5 and close it out at home.)

Yes, Virginia, I may be wishing for the Yankees to not-win less than I now devoutely hope the Phillies are chased around the field with their own bats.

When I think of Mira Nair films, I think of rich visuals, steady pacing, well-developed and introspective characters, beautiful moments where time seems to stand still, and musical numbers tucked in here and there for fun.

When I think of Amelia Earhart, I think of someone fast-paced, high-flying, dedicated, passionate and ground-breaking.

Amelia is lovely, as a half-baked Mira Nair film, but as a biopic of one of the most daring and exciting women of all time? Unfortunately, there's not much stylistic overlap between the life of one woman and the story-telling style of another.

I was so excited for this movie because it's based on two biographies written by women, directed by a woman, produced by and starring one of Hollywood's top women, Hilary Swank.... and also Ewan McGregor's in it. As a romantic rival for Richard Gere. Leading to the fundamentally unbelievable moment when Amelia leaves McGregor to return to Gere so they can go walk on a beach. Puhleaze. *ahem* Anyway,  fans of Across the Universe and Slings and Arrows and Dr. Who will all have moments of ZOMG! ZOMG! and frantic attempts to silently convey via brainwave that omg that guy was in that thing, remember?!?!?! Alas, with anyone but my movie-watching Mtastic former roommate, this doesn't work, so remember to make a mental note so you can squee about it later.

One of the missing pieces in the movie for me is the total absence of Amelia's childhood. Nair cut directly from the first time Earhart saw a plane fly overhead to her flying solo. No adolescence, no demanding her way into flight school, no parental approval or disapprobation, nothing. Swank's characterization is also a tad grating, both vocally and physically. I kept wishing for Katherine Hepburn. Or Cate Blanchett playing Katherine Hepburn from The Aviator. We get to sort of see the building connection between Earhart and her manager-guy, George Putnam (Gere), and I loved that she wasn't eager to get married, wasn't lovey-dovey in public, and that her open marriage allowed for a dalliance with Gore Vidal's dad, Gene (McGregor).

Trouble is, since she's telling a true story, Nair directs as if knowing we know all the plot points - and we do, to an extent - Earhart flies a bunch, achieves a bunch, vanishes mysteriously (oddly, Nair left out the real ending where Earhart is living happily in Brazil somewhere. Interesting directorial choice). But the little ups and downs? All implied, very few outright demonstrations. Earhart's establishment of the women's aviation society, what she spoke about during the lecture series that financed her flying... We get the sense that her flying career was conducted in the public eye, and that this was stressful, but we don't get to see much of what the public saw. Or rather, what the public wished they got to see, behind the scenes in her professional life.

Amelia did feature lots of luscious from-the-air shots, often featuring Swank's voices reading Sandburg poetry or excerpts from Amelia's book or letters, and some of Nair's biggest success is in those moments where she allowed the story to pause, so an emotional scene could really breathe. Those moments reminded you that Nair is a gifted director. But then in the next minute someone (Gere) would deliver a wooden line of dialogue in a weird nasal voice he'd put on for the occasion, or Swank would sound like she was trying for sainthood instead of portraying a real, human woman, and I was back to fervently wishing Ewan McGregor had not also been shooting that Phillip Morris movie so we could see more of him and I don't just mean featured in a longer scene.

Still, Amelia effectively conveys that Earhart was a groundbreaker, that she cultivated and supported other women flyers (or um, aviatrices?) even if she had to compromise herself by endorsing products and leaping through hoops on the lecture circuit to do it. And I sniffled as she had her last radio goodbye with Putnam, and some more as she couldn't hear the radio communication from the waiting naval ship.

I don't know if Nair felt hobbled by time constraints, or lack of access to what the real Amelia's inner world looked like, or what, but the factual information would have been better communicated in a documentary, and the engaging visual texture belongs to a better movie than Amelia.

Me: Are you still sick?
K: I get the sniffles when I'm tired
Me: ...It's probably a brain tumor.
K: Probably. But if so I've had it since I was a kid - I've had a good run

 * * * * * 

(Via g-chat, while sitting 5 feet away)
M: HI KATE
K: Can't talk now. Busy.
M: *cackle* 

* * * * * * 

In other news, Park Slope in fall is lovely. People actually rake their leaves, and the street smell deliciously like the crackling fallen leaf piles that are everywhere. I have determined this shall be the Week of Not Spending Money, and have stockpiled sandwiches so I have no excuse for not taking my lunch and coming home for dinner. Progress report to follow. Had two diet cokes this weekend, but am fessing up and restarting my Caffeine Day Count.

Coming home to No.VA for Halloween - can't turn down the opportunity to see the fam AND our friend's 1-year-old munchkin.

PSA TO PEOPLE EVERYWHERE: Sexy does not equal scary. Indicative of promiscuity is also not scary. Please dress up as something that, if it jumped out at you in the dark, you would not mistake it for a porn star. Unless you're going for a Zombie Porn Star. In which case, carry on.

Finally an e-spammer I can relate to:

"Hello! My name is Lina!
To me of 26 years. Also I live in Russia! I never had children and never was married!
I search for love, friendship or creation of family! I the good girl which dream to meet the love! I hope you will answer me soon on wash email: vsegood@rocketmail.com! I shall wait... kiss"

I also the good girl which dream to meet the love!! Let's have aspic and tea and talk long the times good!

Residents of the relatively quiet second floor apartment in Park Slope were shocked and reasonably grossed out by the discovery of a dead hamster body this evening. The exact time of death could not be determined because the owner is a terrible mother the rodent coroner's office is closed pending investigation of a rat infestation, but the victim, one Tina Fey the Hamster, was known to be in ill health before her demise.

Her sister and roommate, Amy Poehler the Hamster, was understandably distraught when interviewed by investigators as the body was being removed from the top-of-the-dresser dwelling. She gave the following statement, clearly overcome with either grief or shock: "OMG the wheel is over THERE now! And someone moved the igloo! The food dish was empty, and now it's FULL! Look! I can climb the walls and hang from the ceiling!!!"

After investigators became suspicious of her extremely high-strung demeanor, they noticed Ms. Fey The Hamster's body showed unmistakeable signs of having been nibbled upon, and amidst squeals of "Ewww," representation for Ms. Poehler The Hamster concluded she had no comment to make at this time. The investigation is ongoing, but no charges are expected to be filed since the only suspect is already behind bars.

Ms. Fey will be interred tomorrow morning - parties wishing to send their condolences may honor her memory by playing her favorite song, "These Are The Days of Our Lives" at her favorite time of day to exercise, eat, fight with her sister or squeak for no reason: whenever you were about to go to sleep.


Photo of the victim circa February, 2009

Satellite Cassini is just chilling (ha - the infinite cold of space!) out by Saturn and picking up awesome images that are all catalogued here, here, here and here, and you should all go stare at them until size and perspective lose all meaning. The first image of one of Saturn's moons makes me feel like I'm falling.

Because I'm obsessively subscribed to most of the theater mailing lists in Manhattan, I was fortunate enough to get a heads up that one Eddie Izzard (comedian, actor, documentarian, tv star, marathon runner and goodness knows what else) was coming to 45 Bleecker Street for a one night engagement. His next appearance here will be in January at Madison Square Garden, will cost a mint and be in a smelly arena.... so naturally  I lept at the chance to see him in a 199-person venue for $25, and off we went.

What I love most about him, besides his ability to conceive and pull off looks like the following:



is how smart he is. This performance was basically a trial run for his American tour, so he was putting "scenes" together (where lesser comics have jokes, he has scenes complete with multiple characters and pantomime and awesomeness) and improvising and even taking callouts from the audience when he needed to think of a "B" animal or something. The last show of his I watched on DVD (where the above still comes from) was Dressed to Kill and as I recall had lots of material about relationships and love and such. This one is about being an atheist, so he spends a lot of time dissecting the Bible with logic in a very silly way, and also about the History of the World, so he's delving into evolution and Greco-Roman history and then there was talk of animals and...

His shows really take you places - at once point he was doing a bit about the Stone Age and pantomimed the first guy who killed a bison with a rock, or something, and then mimed skinning it, and then a few minute later when he'd moved on into a different scene, he still stepped around where the bison had fallen. And we all knew exactly why he'd sidestepped without his breaking into a laugh and explaining himself.

In between bouts of absolute silliness (possibly my very favorite thing), he messed about with language, and at one point during a Noah's Ark story ("Well there must have been a canteen") managed to segue into one of his best known routines about Darth Vader at the canteen on the Death Star. Instead of proceeding with the scene people were begging for, he pulled out his iPhone and played an mp3 into the mike!

Anyway, I had lots more to say when I started this entry this morning but it's all gone now and I can only say that it made me sublimely happy to be at an exclusive-ish event (where John Leguizamo also was!!), laughing nearly constantly for 2.5 hours, and never once having to stop and cringe because the humor had gone to a vulgar or a sexist or a homophobic place like it so often does with the stand-up I see in the city.

In two weeks I'll be seeing Mike Birbiglia, who is an American comic and story teller, also smart, and cute, and very clever.

Moar like dese, plz.

I really dislike working in a building where we have to use a key to get into the communal restrooms on the floor. The office only has one key, and getting it makes me feel like I'm a 3rd grader asking for the bathroom pass. Apparently there's one woman on the floor who feels Very Strongly that thehttp://www.google.com/reader/view/#stream/user%2F02008921536369390674%2Fstate%2Fcom.google%2Freading-list bathroom should be locked, what with the open air emergency staircase being right next to the women's room, and all. Except for when I have morbid visions of a gunman shooting under the stall door or being locked in there while a zombie prowls the halls, I tend to feel like the 18 steps between the office and the bathroom are safe territory. Now I don't know if I even feel safe taking the elevator up to my floor.

Apparently yesterday during an upward elevator ride, a man was groped by a man he didn't know. The security guy watching the cameras downstairs saw it, the suspect got off on my floor, the victim called the cops. I don't know if they ever found the guy - the police did come around and knock on all our doors to ask if we'd seen someone.

Security in this building is pretty much a joke - the guard (usually a guy, very occasionally a woman) sometimes pushes elevator buttons for us when we come in the outer glass doors, sort of watches the monitors from the security cameras, sort of tells deliveries to go around to the service elevators (where there is no security presence whatsoever) and periodically vanishes from their station. They never ask people to sign in, show ID or ask who they're here to see.

I overheard this week's guard joking around with another building worker while we all waited for the elevator. He referred to the incident as two guys "fooling around" in the elevator (even though from his description of the events it was clearly not consensual) and laughed it off.

Nobody calls the police after two people consensually "fool around."

Rape culture is minimizing the implications and severity of sexual harassment.