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Post Your Place Please post a short story about where you are - or where you've been.
Jun 21, 2004 06:09 PM GMT In Kingston, New York, "the gateway to the Catskills," we are enjoying full sun today, a sky swept clean by strong breezes that make the trees sound like the ocean on Nantucket, where I vacationed with my family last week. Our yard, particularly a large, crumbling brick planter, teems with things that grow. I can't separate these things into neat categories of plants, herbs, wildflowers. I have the most tenuous hold on which leafy growths arrived here by human intention, and which the breezes brought, but I can tell you: pole beans and pumpkins grow easily here. Groundhogs and our cat, Pat Lavender Will, eat carrot and tatsoi sprouts the moment they're up, so you have to cage those. Sugar baby melons languish, and blueberries disappear before ripening. I didn't know these things in Brooklyn. One thing that makes Kingston different from Brooklyn is that I own earth here. That means my daughter's placenta, which we saved after she was born at home, is buried beneath a peach tree that gave us richly delicious, juicy peaches last summer. I birthed my son at St. Vincent's in the City. No one offered us his placenta, and I didn't think to ask. It is decomposing, I suppose, in a bag marked "Medical Waste" at Fresh Kills landfill. One reason we moved to Kingston is that it reminded us of Brooklyn--because of the sidewalks. They are made of the same bluestone, quarried from mountains nearby and transported downriver in the 19th century, maybe earlier. They heave from ice and tree roots the same way, absorb the sun's heat in summer, get slick and trip you in the winter, make stroller navigation treacherous, make you fall in love with them. I can't bear a town without sidewalks, or a town with cement ones. Our sidewalk triggers memories of Brooklyn all the time. Yesterday I remembered wandering the Brooklyn sidewalks after 9-11 with a bag full of boxes of sanitary napkins. Community Books had posted a sign with a list of urgent needs for relief workers, and I had brought them, excited that I had something to offer, having recently bulk-ordered from Seventh Generation. But a new sign said they were no longer needed, so I brought them along on a date with my husband. I remember my sore feet on the bluestone sidewalks, the bag banging against my shin, the helpless feeling. Our Kingston house, a six-bedroom of generous proportions built in 1850 that we bought with the proceeds of our Brooklyn co-op at a particularly insane real estate moment, was owned by a quarry owner at one time. He placed three vast slabs of bluestone in front of the house, leading from the front steps to the front curb. He had a bluestone carriage step engraved with his name, Boice, and it sits by the curb, next to a bluestone hitching post. My children draw on the walk with chalk, use the carriage step as a pretend stove for boiling wood sorrel and clover, hang on the hitching post ring. The same Hudson River that brought this bluestone to Brooklyn is the reference point connecting my children's origins in one city with their life in another. We take them to see productions by Arm-of-the-Sea Puppet Theater that eloquently tell the story of this region's water -- the political fights about it, the toil of reservoir building, the displacement of Catskill locals. We play them Tom Chapin's tribute to the water that flows both ways, "Muhheakunnuk." We hike to lookout spots, cross bridges, cruise on the Rip Van Winkle and point excitedly, "Look! There's the river! Keep on going and you get to New York City, where you were born!"
Nancy Graham 
Apr 11, 2004 09:00 PM GMT
It's Easter morning in a sleepy Chicago suburb.
Deb Mikasser
Jan 29, 2004 01:31 AM GMT Truth is I should be working even tho the office is almost empty now. I don't get out of here for another hour, supposedly, but the forecast is bad and it's going to take at least an hour and a half to get home. Besides, there are far better options available to me than skimming through the latest InStyle. The main door just opened but it was only one of the cleaners - from Dalian, China, she told me yesterday - retrieving the industrial vacuum cleaner. Once she disappears back into the lift, I'm outta here. There's a pub with my name on it (actually, there isn't; there's a post office with my name on it, but why would I go into a post office and order a pint of Guinness?) and a chill wind round the corner. Wish me luck.
John Green
Jul 30, 2003 06:57 PM GMT When I bought my house four years ago, I chose the city it's in because I could afford an actual house there, and not just a shack with flowers to disguise its categorical difference from the neighbors. The goal was just to Get A House, all of my own, that wasn't waiting for me to eventually pack up and leave it. A house where I could spend all day crying, when that was what was needed. Where my dog and my cat weren't guests in someone else's house, or undesirables requiring extra deposits; where they had a full home. And me, too. I wasn't interested in saving up any longer so I could buy more house in a better neighborhood; I just need My Own Place. So there's this little town (Hamtramck) surrounded by a Big Bad City (Detroit), a two-mile square island of immigrants and Chicago-style housing and a dive bar on every corner. The lawns are neat and tiny, the streets full of donut smells at 4:30 a.m., and the people old and Old World. Biscuit-shaped ladies in babushka's and black stockings carry groceries home from market. People still eat real bacon, and eggs fried in the fat, for breakfast. You can't find skim milk anywhere in town. I fall on the slimmer end of the community spectrum. I bought the first house I looked at. Neighbors who smile; the luxury of not turning a head when I go to the store, or to eat, wearing pajama bottoms and dorky shoes; a sturdy 1920s home waiting for me each day, smiling it's enormous front porch at me: these were enough to make my happy home. But Hamtramck had surprises in store for me. My first year, I found a building painted purple, a giant ant head on its side. There, I fell in love with improvisation, and have since graduated from Second City. Artists lurk in unlikely places, and I've found an open mic where I hope to read for the first time. And at The Senate I drink $1.25 Pabsts with a handful of brilliant old folks while we play word games or watch Jeopardy. Every winter, when I'm shoveling my front walk alongside my neighbor in her saree, and we smile at each other with warm nods, because she doesn't speak English, I marvel at the fascinating place that's become my home. Amy Probst, here @ amyprobst.com, Hamtramck, MI
It's a typical Scottish Summer's day. The sky is grey, the sea is grey, the grass is grey, the people are grey. Wish I was at home in bright, warm, sunny, colourful Yorkshire. John Boocock
This is a perfect day. The grass in Bryant Park is perfectly fluffy. I am amazing at taking a nap outside for exactly 50 minutes. Meanwhile 2 guys with big brown hawks were flying them across the park, predators swooping low over lunchers, beaks full of little gray feathers, yum. Great way to keep the pigeons away. Shannon Rothenberger
"I can't figure out what that woman did to her hair. I've seen hair extensions, but what is that?" "I think it's a hair projection." It's not even an attractive pile-up, like you might see on Audrey Hepburn or even Cleopatra. It's about the size and shape of a large penis. Like the dream I had of the man who had a penis growing straight out of the top of his head like an antenna, except this is a real live red-haired woman walking down Albina Street, smiling to herself. Shae Irving <shae@mindspring.com>
Neuzinha takes me to the Galeria de Rock in the Centro of São Paulo to hunt for the works of Os Mutantes, the seminal psychedelic Tropicalia band of the late 1960s: a three-story megamall divided into ghettoes for punk, metal, and national music. The place is swarming, despite the threat of attacks by skinheads from ABC. Neuzinha is sure, when I turn my gringo camera on a group of local Hell's Angels, that we are about to be beaten to death with pool cues. Instead, the tatooed behemoth, Pateta ("Weirdo"), king snake of the Abutres ("Vultures"), ushers my friend into the frame and strikes a noble pose. It turns out he is the Green Party candidate for the state legislature. "Eu tambem sou Verde, né?" "Superlegal," he says, giving a firm, friendly Brazuco thumbs-up. He and his pals stage a massive peel-out outside the galeria, popping wheelies on their Munstermobile tricycles. Toto, I don't think we're in Brooklyn anymore. Colin Brayton <redactor@earthlink.net>
"NO SHITTING ON THE FLOOR OF THIS TRAIN," read a sign in a Harlem Line Metro North car. On closer inspection I noticed a P transformed to an H by means of whiteout and marker. The sad thing, I almost bought it. Still sitting in Grand Central I overheard the woman behind me say, "Why would anyone put blue eyeshadow on dead Jewish grandmother?" Good question. Pamela Nugent <pamela_a_nugent@hotmail.com>
Now and then I dream that Manhattan is transformed in some way. In the past the snow has cleaned the city, or the people have all disappeared, or the gum has taken over and swallowed us all. Last night it was wildflowers. Millions of them. All the colours you can imagine, and then some. And they completely replaced the streets. Not the sidewalks, just the streets. It was so beautiful. But children could not run into the street to play in the wildflowers. Oh no. Because of the bees, you see. Wildflowers come with bees. Huge swarms of bees, in many shapes and sizes. But that was ok, too. Because the bees obeyed traffic signals. So long as you stuck to the footpath and obeyed the lights, you would never be stung by the bees, patiently waiting for the green signal to go. I like my version of the city better. David Dyte <daviddyte@hotmail.com>
Could somebody actually live on Nice Court in Pleasanton, California? Shae Irving <shae@mindspring.com>
Allston is nearly the westernmost neighborhood of Boston. It is wedged between Harvard University, Boston University, and Boston College, and as a result, more than half its population is between the ages of 19 and 29. So at times, it has a reputation for being an unruly place.
It's more than college students, though. There are, among others, several sizeable immigrant communities. The most visible group, if not the largest, are the Brazilians.
On a recent Saturday night a friend of a friend had one of those parties people don't really show up at until they've been somewhere else. It got going late and dragged far too deep into the night and led to my returning home with birds chirping, never a good sign.
Just a few hours later the mother of all traffic jams seemed to be happening outside my window. Horns honked repeatedly, like someone had parked their car in the middle of the street or something.
Then it occurred to me. Brazil must have won the World Cup.
I stumbled out of bed -- it was barely 9 am -- and carried my headache out to the front porch. At the door my roommate and a friend of ours greeted me much too excitedly for me to grasp in my half-conscious state. I was still struggling feebly to get my pants fastened properly.
Within minutes I had been handed a bottle of beer and was standing in a waking sleep a floor up from a spontaneous parade of yellow, blue, and green. People ran, danced, drove, screamed, climbed things -- all bearing a Brazilian flag of some sort. Eventually we walked through an alley to the front of the shopping center across the street -- hundreds of green-and-blue-and-yellow bees swarmed around the parking lot, only they were human beings, and their dutiful work was celebrating with reckless abandon. Bands played, girls danced, kids ran through the streets -- even the police were cheering.
Somehow I made it to midnight that night, before going to sleep again. And as I lay there dozing off, I'd periodically hear "beep-beep-beep-beep-beep," and it'd make me smile, like a lullaby playing again and again and again. Pete Nersesian <pnerses at softhome.net>
I am sitting in the bowels of a grotesquely large university library that I work second shift at...with a cup of nasty Maxwell House and an Utne Reader hanging out on the desk in front of me. I am just on my break. I was formerly reading Katie Haegele's unbashful account (Utne, May-June 2002) of moving back in with her mother. This article made me feel more comfortable about the likely prospect of my migration back to my parents home. Like Katie, I've tasted the so-called juicy solo scene (albeit not in Philly but in the lame pastoral land of State College, PA). But shortly I will be crippled not with the tragedy of losing a loved one but with the more petty affliction of *complete bankruptcy*. I have decided to go back to school.
And school happens to be located fifteen minutes away from access to free laundry facilities, free meals, free parking, free lodging, free affection and free encouragement. Some people may say they'd prefer prison to moving in with their rents but it now seems that one couldn't live more (pardon the cliche) freely anywhere else.
S. Havas
New York City has so relentlessly paved itself over, sometimes it's hard to remember that there's a landscape under there at all. Until, that is, you see the water, which can't be paved. A port city wrapped around fjords (the Hudson River) and estuaries (the East, the Harlem, Long Island Sound), New York's waters have a habit of popping up when least expected: storm-tossed waves viewed far beneath the wheels of your subway train as it rumbles across the Manhattan Bridge, say, or, on occasion, washing right up onto the East River Drive, to lap at the foundations of Wall Street towers. Brooklyn's diaspora of subway trains scatter as they leave Manhattan, but at their opposite ends, many return from their wanderings to rejoin at Coney Island's massive Stillwell Avenue terminal. Walk out past Nathan's, past the batting cages and the bumper boats, past the dredged beach sand and the new comfort stations rising like brick mileposts along the boardwalk, and one can walk the length of a pier that juts out far into the Atlantic Ocean. From the far end, the onshore carnival rides are distant toys, the world turned over to the quest for fish, countless anglers casting anything from minnows to whole chicken legs into the turbid waters. "I wonder if it's safe to eat anything that comes out of there," Mindy wonders aloud, adding quickly: "Probably no worse than McDonald's." (On the Q train en route to the beach, we overheard two women talking. "I heard that lower-income people," said one while slathering suntan lotion on her arms, "get most of their antibiotics from McDonald's.") It looks like nothing's biting at first, but then one fisherman begins to reel in a catch; then another, and another, until the pier is covered with flopping, struggling fish. And what fish! Prehistoric-looking beasts, with angry pink flesh and enormous pectoral fins that splay like bats' wings. At the rate they're being hauled in, they must be swarming about the pier's pilings in abundance. "What's that fish called?" an older white gentleman passing by asks one of the fishermen. "Sea robin." The man still looks puzzled, curious. He wanders off, sidles up to another angler, on the far side of the pier. "Can you eat those sea robins?" he asks, in the blunt, amiable tone that New Yorkers use to ask "Is this train going to Times Square?"
"You can eat 'em," comes the answer. "They taste like chicken."
Neil deMause <neild@heremagazine.com>
Our house had no number. I remembered this driving back to my childhood home two weeks ago. 46 Mine Dock. Thinking why does this sound so strange. 46 Mine Dock doesnÌt sound right. ItÌs not right. For most of my childhood our house number went unknown to every member of my family. It wasnÌt important. It wasnÌt true. And now, here, was 46 Mine Dock. Back then it really had no number, no name, nothing official or structured. So pulling up in front of my parentsÌ home and seeing that brass four and six, I recognized the lie. And I was grateful. It interrupted my story. The radio was broken; I had been narrating since I hit the Connecticut border (Connecticut being the unfortunate barrier between Massachusetts and lower New York). The story I was trying to tell myself wasnÌt convincing. There was a discrepancy between what I remembered and what I could expect to see. The difference wasnÌt rooted in an urge to fictionalize, to make beautiful those details that are necessary to catalog oneÌs life experiences, something IÌm often needed to be called on. It was because that house had changed so much (new deck, new windows, new floors, landscaping). And my family had come so far (sober six years). No wonder it felt so unfamiliar. So before stepping inside to try and dig out the past, I walked down the street. Spent some time with the familiar, the imperfect, the Hudson. Pamela Nugent <panugent@earthlink.net>
I am sitting in the laundry mat: the wash o'rama staring out past the neat square rows of hot dryers, past the rectangular rows spinning washers and looking out into the street. Every wash day I contemplate the oddity of this. The geometry of the city. The sameness but also the individuality of lives so crowded together occurs to me on laundry day. Sitting inside mindlessly waiting I think about how my landscape and my life has moved indoors. Where I am and where I have been are inside places. Square and rectangular wombs of the city. Washerwomen outside in the sunshine on the banks of some river in a far away place: not me. I live an inside sanitized life.
rebecca Free <rjfree01@yahoo.com>
Downstairs, a couple fights on the front porch. They're both drunk. She screams at him in a language I don't recognize, then pushes him, punches him, knocks his glasses off his face. Neighbors turn on their lights. Someone somewhere else fires a gun twice into the dark. The man doesn't hit back, but gets right up in the woman's face and yells: Get the fuck away from me. I don't want to deal with you, you hit me, you hit me, I don't want to fucking deal with you. I want to sleep. The police arrive and send the woman away with a friend. The man crawls around the porch looking for his glasses. His pale yellow shirt and dark hair match the badly peeling paint, the dark welcome mats. It's three in the morning and he can't see anything. Intermittent howls erupt from his body. Shae Irving <shae@mindspring.com>
How Remy Martin Saved My Life / by Nurete Brenner
We met Imam and Ali on our last night in Bombay before leaving for the airport to fly home to Israel. Tania and I had been rushing around all day using up our last rupees to buy gifts for all the people who would kill us if we didnÌt bring them anything but who would probably not appreciate the gifts, not having been to India themselves. We stopped finally for a breather at a fruit-juice stand and between gulps of fresh-squeezed mango juice, I blurted out to the vendor Ïwhere would you go to eat if it was to be your last meal in India and you didnÌt know when if ever you would be coming back?Ó The fruit-juice man didnÌt even stop to think: ÏThe Sarwat HotelÓ he said. Before we could say Indira Gandhi, the mango-juice vendor had put us in a cab, given the driver directions in Maharathi and even bargained the fare for us.
Within ten minutes we found ourselves walking into a bright, well-lit restaurant, where, as usual in over-employed India, there was one man to open the door, one to show us to our seats, one to hand us the menu, and another to pour our water which we didnÌt drink since we had managed to get through our four-week sojourn in India without once suffering from travelerÌs tummy. Finally, the waiter himself came to smile and take our order. His English was minimal. When I asked him to recommend the best thing on the menu, attempting to explain about the last meal, he called over three other restaurant functionaries to translate. We ended up pointing to things that we didnÌt recognize, hoping to taste all the pungent dishes that we had not yet tried and we sat back, looking forward to another excellent Indian dinner. The only bad meal we had experienced on out trip was in Hubli where they had fed us leftover scraps from the kitchen. But then, everything had been bad in Hubli.
The meal at the Sarwat Hotel was outstanding. Our mango juice seller deserves his own restaurant column in the India Times.
As we were resting between courses, the table next to us was taken by two young Indian men. One sported a pony tail and had the most exquisitely chiseled features. He was dressed in All Stars and white sweat pants as if to announce to the world, I Am at Leisure. Ali was less flamboyant and was dressed in jeans and a button shirt, but he was also beautiful. Later, when we compared notes, Tania preferred his looks, while I was entranced by Imam. It took me till dessert to work up the courage to speak to them. Tania, her British roots showing, hissed at me ÏitÌs impolite to interrupt someone elseÌs dinner,Ó but my Israeli chutzpah prevailed. I turned to Imam and - still obsessed with last night in India matters - said, Ïdo you know where to get the best samosas n Bombay?Ó
No, I wasnÌt still hungry after the meal at the Sarwat, but the trip to India had aroused in us an appetite for something that still eluded us. The question about the samosas had more to do with a spiritual than physical hunger. We were still craving a glimpse past the opaque veil that seems to hang between people of different cultures. And besides, I had promised my sister and brother-in-law, who had been to India themselves, to bring back some genuine Indian samosas fresh off the plane.
Imam was ecstatic that I had spoken to them. He was thrilled to make new tourist friends. Hyperbolic words like ÏecstaticÓ and ÏthrilledÓ suited Imam. Everything about him was flamboyant and extravagant. ÏHoney, what a tragedy that this is your last night in Bombay. It would have been so exciting to show you around.Ó By then we had all finished our meals and we grabbed a taxi to find the samosas.
The samosa shop had shut down for the night, but we bought some Indian sweets instead and the four of us went to Marine Drive to wait for the airport bus and to watch the fireworks signaling the beginning of the Diwali festivities. As we alighted from the taxi, Imam warned us to be careful not to step on the squashed lime that was lying in the gutter. ÏDarling, I donÌt believe in that voodoo shit, but you never know on Diwali. You just never know.Ó
As we watched the firecrackers and ate the sweets, Imam, who by now had become our intimate friend, told us the story of how Remy Martin had saved his life.
ÏThe cognac?Ó I asked, puzzled.
ÏJust listen,Ó he said, shushing me with a dramatic wave of his hand.
ÏIt was the year of the Muslim Ò Hindu riots that began in Ayodha and soon spread to the rest of the country. I was traveling from my office in downtown Bombay to visit my Grandmother who lives in a northern suburb of the city. My friend Remy had offered to give me a ride there on his motorbike and we set off that evening. We had heard the news about the rioting but hadnÌt realized that that it had spread this far south. We knew something was wrong though as soon as we left the downtown. There were people running in all directions and the street people and beggars had miraculously melted into the nighttime pavement. We heard shouts and the sound of broken glass. Nervously, we pressed on.
Remy and I both knew the city very well. I had worked for several years as a sales rep and could find my way blindfolded. If we saw trouble ahead, we would duck down alleys and drive through back streets. But finally we came to an area where we knew trouble was unavoidable. It was a central through-road that cut right down the middle between a Muslim neighborhood on the east side and a Hindu neighborhood on the west.
Remy stopped for a breather. We exchanged grim looks and I said to him Ïstep on it.Ó He nodded and revved up the 50cc engine. We made it about halfway down the street when a stone came flying and hit the bike. We skid and slipped and both of us fell off the bike. Out of nowhere a crowd came running from both sides of the street. Now, you have to understand, most of the time these people were neighbors and friends. The enmity only began on that day. It was fate that placed them on one side of the street or the other. We couldnÌt tell which side they belonged to any more than they could tell on which side we belonged, just by looking at us.
They conferred among themselves a moment and then demanded Ïwhat are your names?Ó
ÏRemyÓ my friend said in a voice clogged with fear. His name revealed that he was Christian and they turned to me.
ÏWhatÌs your name?Ó
I swear I wasnÌt thinking straight. I didnÌt deliberately try to hide my so obviously Muslim name. But something, some instinct, or maybe just the hand of fate conspired to save me.
ÏMartinÓ I answered.
In Bombay the name Martin conjures up the image of a slacker, drug dealer type. But it is undeniably a Christian name. What with my pony tail and style of dress, they didnÌt doubt for one moment that I was Martin.
An old man addressed the crowd that had formed around us and said with authority.
ÏWe must let them go. These are Christians and we do not want to escalate the conflict to include them as well.Ó
The others murmured in agreement. They picked up the motorbike, helped dust us off and set us on our way.
ÏRemyÓ I said once we had gone a safe distance, ÏI was so scared I think I shit my pants.Ó
ÏMe tooÓ
We immediately drove off to the nearest hotel we could find and holed up for the next three days until things had quieted down a little and we could call a friend to bring us fresh clothing.
And thatÌs how Remy Martin saved my life.Ó
Tania and I were silent after that story, thinking about fate and conflict and about returning home to Israel. Finally we had received a glimpse behind the curtained window of another culture. And as with most of the tastes of India we were left wanting more.
Soon the airport bus arrived and we wished Imam and Ali a farewell promising to e-mail and send them chocolates from Israel.
Nurete Brenner <nurete@hotmail.comk>
Graffiti Epitaph In the infamous Northeast neighborhood of Kansas City, Missouri, is the corner of Ninth and Prospect. On this corner's northeast side is an abandoned bar, on the northwest is a car lot. On the southeast corner is an abandoned building that was once rather nice and could be again, and on the south west corner is Speedy's Liquor and Grocery. Notice that Liquor comes first. On a cold November day in 1998, I was driving to my job in one of the marble towers of downtown Kansas City through this desolate war zone struggling to be a neighborhood, when I saw something fresh, and new, a jagged wound on Speedy's wall. Blood red, still dripping letters, screaming their agony at me-- someone had written "In mem of Asia D, tru soilder" (spelling original -- I even laughed at it once, myself). Spray painted graffiti on a liquor store wall. Big deal. I finished my commute and arrived at my antiseptically clean, white office building, but the words still haunted me. Asia D. was dead. That much I could figure out. Someone later told me "true soldier" came from a rap song. For the next several weeks I pored through the newspapers searching for a reference that might give me a clue. Nothing. As far as the papers were concerned, a death in the hood was not news. Every day I drove past the same corner. Every day the red letters screamed their loss at me, freshly shedding the bloodstained tears. Asia D. was dead. Was Asia D. a man or a woman? An adult or a child? Did Asia D. die quickly, or lie helplessly as blood slipped away with life? Two warring portraits battled in my brain for supremacy: Asia D. was a young man, already hardened, already empty with the pressure of too many defeats squeezing him dry, too many opportunities missed. He was a dangerous young man, addicted to crack or to crank or to meth and willing to addict others to feed his habit. The public schools had taught him nothing but injustice and envy. He could not read. He could only hate. One night a deal went wrong or a bullet went astray, and suddenly Asia D. was dead. He wasn't a nice guy. But somebody mourned him. Or: Asia D. was a child. Hmong, or Thai, or Vietnamese. Mother and father struggling to move up and out. Named their child for their heritage, but in their new language. Working two jobs, paying too much for too little. Asia D. was bright. She had a future. She could sing her ABC's. She was happy and sunny and golden. Her parents' dreams resided in her. But one day she was playing in the yard, watched closely by her mother, and a deal went wrong or a bullet went astray, and suddenly Asia D. was dead. She was a wonderful little girl. And somebody mourned her. I saluted, in my mind, every day as I drove past that epitaph to a life cut short by despair. Shortly after Christmas, the words were painted over. But I remembered. IN MEM OF ASIA D. TRU SOILDER Remember. Jennifer Liles <mmaureenn@nocannedmeathotmail.com>
at: a contemporary arts museum made out of a collection of old mill and factory buildings-- lots of exposed brick and trees growing upside down
what: a band that should consist only of two geeky men named John and John (but that has recently added some real band sound to their band) is playing, a song I don't know, but should, and they tell us energetically to:
"PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE HIPS OF A STRANGER! NOW FOLLOW THEM! YOU'RE CONGA-ING!"
"I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING YOU KNOW!"
So we do, and someone I don't know is holding my hips and I am holding SaraJoe's, and we conga. But mostly we are bouncing up and down repeatedly as we try to keep up with our own line. It goes on for the remainder of that song and into another one, and everyone keeps going, most of the floor is conga-ing, whole lines of people, there must be 16 lines at least, and I see people I know pass by and everyone's laughing and jumping.
It's fun. allli <apoirot@bennington.edu>
Childhood in The South
Hee-Haw every Saturday evening
Fish-fries on the patio under the big gum tree
Chasing lightening bugs
Chasing lizards, snakes, and toads
Catching crawfish with bacon on a string
Digging holes and filling them with water
Catching bees and pulling their stingers out, not knowing we were killing them
Making ÏperfumeÓ from Ms. GoldsbyÌs roses
Throwing dry dog turds from the grass at each other
Joby Bass <jobybass@hotmail.com>
New YearÌs Night in Louisiana
A raccoon digs in my neighborÌs trash
under a purplish vapor light.
The light is filtered by the needles of a pine tree.
Above, in a crystal cold night sky,
a jumbo jet is heading right up OrionÌs crotch.
I want to yell at him
Warn him,
But itÌs too late.
The blinking light guts him while I turn to walk back inside and warm my ears and fingers by the heater.
The raccoon, caught up in sweet potatoes, never sees me or the plane.
Joby Bass <jobybass@hotmail.com>
Hi, My names Josh, I live in the Crappy butthole of Texas It sucks I'll tell you about the town...
We have three main places to eat Subway (which is convieniently located in
a gas station) a pizza joint which got a 45 rating from the health
inspector, and a newly installed McDonalds. Sounds like it sucks? thats
only the beggining we have 2 stop lights both on the same road highway 380
we have 2 police officers both seriosly over weight and 3 police motor
cycles I would jump off a bouilding and take myself out of this place but the highest building barley clears 30 ft! well all I can possibly do Is get on the internet that just came in still waiting for DSL, the kids in my school are all inbred retard rednecks that justr get drunk and have sex all the time I'm left with a handfull of outsiders that seek sanctuary in places like the bandhall or the computer lab I just wish I could move away far far away see more adventures with my best friend Pavel at http://pavel.tn2.org Josh Carmona <josh_rulz2000@yahoo.com>
I live in a small red brick apartment building in Seattle. The stairway is usually very quiet when I fling myself down the stairs and out the door to catch my bus at six a.m. (The reason I fling is that I am always running late. The reason I leave at six is that I am a schoolteacher, and must arrive at 7:15.) One morning, as is my routine, I kissed my sleeping husband goodbye, snatched my coat and backpack, and dashed out the door. No minutes to spare in order to catch the bus and not be late to school (okay when you're an eighth grader, but not when you're an eighth-grade teacher). So I barely paused when I almost stepped in a sticky, brown, shiny heap of SOMETHING in front of my neighbor's door. I had no idea what it was. It lay on the fuzzy purple carpet, next to a black line. I couldn't stop, because I would miss my bus. The sight, however, was extremely creepy. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I should go back upstairs and lock the door to my apartment, in case some creepy person lurked in the building. That I should knock on his door and tell the neighbor about it. That some sort of authority should be summoned. Those thoughts were superseded by the thought of missing the bus, and I fled. The business of school put the strange heap of whatever out of my mind. I had almost completely forgotten it, odd though it was, when I got home that evening. The first thing Matthew said was, "Maybe you knew this, but did you know Adrian Ryan of The Stranger lives downstairs?" Downstairs÷ strange heap÷ Adrian Ryan? I had never talked to our downstairs neighbor, but Matthew talked to him that afternoon as the neighbor cleaned up the sticky pile and dark line before his door. It turned out that "S. (A.) Ryan" on the mailbox was Adrian Ryan, journalist and gossip columnist for The Stranger, our local weekly. In his journalist role he had recently researched an article on the practice of Voodoo in Seattle. The disgusting heap of rotten chicken livers and the line of ash before his doorway were a little gift left by a Voodoo practitioner displeased by his work on the article, which hadn't yet been published. Whatever this person intended, Adrian Ryan appears to be in good health. A very faint black line remains in the purple carpet. I look where I'm stepping as I hurry down the purple stairs. Laurie Amster-Burton <laurie@drizzle.com>
I saw a Sharp-shinned hawk land on top of an 'Oregonian' machine clutching a dead crow in its talons. A woman had her back to the scene, waiting for a ride. It was just after dark and dozens of business-folk streamed by, homeward, oblivious to the bird, giving me odd stares for standing in the middle of the sidewalk with bags of trash in each hand, after dark, in a drizzle. The bird was six feet away. Two minutes later it took off, dropping the crow at the feet of the woman waiting for the ride. She looked down, saw the dead bird, looked back into traffic and continued to wait. A dead crow had just fallen from the sky. She waited. Maybe this wasn't strange. We are bombing a country that's built a total of 18 miles of railroad. It's not like a smart-missle fell at her feet. The hawk landed on a street-light. A few more minutes passed. I finished my task- dropping the trash into the compactor - and returned. The hawk was gone. The crow was gone. The woman waiting for her ride was gone. The bombs, half a world away, continued to fall. michael rogner <mrogner@home.com>
The bird boy just sat there, stooped over his photographic camera, caressing its flash bulb, scrutinizing it from all angles, and making those little crow calls.
And while I was fascinatedly watching him as he whistled and cawed and turned the camera in his hands, I suddenly realized that he had no idea at all that he was acting weird. Miron Schmidt <miron.schmidt@berlin.de>
I was leaving Pennsylvania Station,and I saw a huge mural decorating the wall on one of its corridors: Lubbock, TX loves NYC, or something like that, I don't remember exactly. It's scrawled with decorations and messages, presumably heartfelt condolences from the people of Lubbock to the people of New York City after 9/11. I step towards it for a closer look and one message catches my eye. "When will we learn?", it says. "CLOSE THE BORDERS." Andrew Ross <ampersnd@panix.com>
Hi...not much to tell here, but thought I would contibute anyway. I live in a medium sized town called Ashford in England, about 50 miles south east of London. I get about quite a bit as I travel on a 20 minute train journey to Canterbury ( a near by city) to go to a better college than my local one 4 days a week. It also only takes an hour to travel by train to London..so I do this quite alot coz it's cooler than Ashford!Ashford is quite boring really. It's really booming at moment though. It's the fastest growing place in England! But they're turning our town into a commuter town with no ammenities just houses.It sucks.Just new roads and houses, with nothing for all these newcomers to do. I have read somewhere, that Ashford is quite similar to a US boom town called Colorado springs, I don't know how true this is, but it sounding as if they were in a similar situation. Anyway, me and some mates from my college are starting our own zine. We are planning the first issue at the moment. We would love some input from outside the uk, it would really liven things up for the first issue!we take pretty much anything as possible content, so don't hesitate email me now!!!!please! You can find out more about where I live @ www.ashford.gov.uk ( this is the council homepage so don't blame me if it is all fascist BS! If the crew at HERE mag want to send us a free copy of your mag in return for a copy of our zine when its published(please!) email us at the above address!) Indykid <indypress@schmooze.co.uk>
I live in a rural area. Whenever I tell people that, they think it means I live 10 miles from a mall. Think more like 40. I live on a dirt road that opens off a dirt road.
That rural.
My life right now, in this area gives me great peace. I am 42, will be a grandmother next June, still have a child in elementary, one a senior, and two who are on their own, objectively speaking. I'm not prepared for the responsibility of bifocals, grey hair, and grandmotherhood. I am still very young, inside, and full of ambition for my fledgling writing career, a long time dream that is finally off 'hold'.
I sit on my front porch or at my window in the morning and watch the sunrise. The sky fills slowly with light, and sometimes I can see the fog lifting on the river, about a mile away across the fields and woods. Most mornings, dawn is enough to take my breath away and fill me with awe.
It restores me, looking at this land, watching the hawks glide in the air overhead, seeing the fox slip over the top of the hill. The land has been here, enduring for hundreds of years. Looking at the dawn, I think I can survive coming into middle age.
Terri Cheney, Reynolds,GA
tea_cee1@yahoo.com Terri Cheney <tea_cee1@yahoo.com>
I'm in the Hatfield Center at OHSU, tucked away in the bone marrow transplant clinic. A year ago I thought it neat that the chairs were so comfortable, but now that I've seen Nichole spending so much of her time in one, they've lost their glamor. The patients sit in a circle. Mondays are the busiest, and Nichole's been bumped to thursday - a good sign, meaning they don't have to rush her in after the weekend. They feel safe enough to allow her an entire week between visits. She's here to get her chest catheter removed, and a PICC installed in her arm. A lady I've never seen sits to our immediate left. Before she's got her coat off she's warming up the room with transplant humor - a specialty not unlike PHD's in moleclar hoobily-goobily. Turns out she's been coming for ten years, weekly, fighting a never ending bout of GVHD. In human-speak, that means her new marrow has been attacking her body since the transplant, thinking it an outsider. So it goes. She's got all the catheter jokes, the needle jokes, the shaky-handed-nurse jokes. Someone tells Nichole they're about ready to take out her catheter. The lady riffs on PICC lines. She's had four. "They're the worst," she says. Nichole's only 180 days in. She's getting her first. I look at the woman's husband, standing beside her. He looks half her age. These are the kind of things that get you thinking. How have the last ten years aged her? How have they aged him? There's a woman across from us who had to delay her transplant so she could give birth. They weren't sure she'd make it that long, but these are the choices they offer in the Hatfield Center. The woman to our left starts on her doctor humor. It's not as refined as the rest. We head down to the 11th floor for catheter removal. The chairs aren't nearly as comfortable. michael rogner <mrogner@home.com>
We went to a ball game in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. They've
been playing ball in Pittsfield for some time, it seems.
The t-shirts say Wahconah Park was built in 1919- the lady
in front of us says that's not really true, she remembers
the grandstand going up in the late thirties. It wasn't
really a proper park before that, she says. More a few
tree stumps, for sitting on, around a field. The Astros, new in town since the Mets departed for
more modern digs in Brooklyn, are only here for a year
before they take up in Troy. Will this be the last season
of pro ball in Pittsfield? No, says the lady, she's seen
Red Sox and Tigers and Mets and all sorts play in Pittsfield.
Someone will want to play here. I very much hope so. I've been to games in places as far flung
as Toronto and Durham, Anaheim and Newark in the past
three years, but I have never seen anything like this.
Wooden owls hang from the rafters to scare the birds. One
fan takes this icon a step further- he cheers the team
while toting a wooden owl on a stick. Tall trees line the
outfield beyond a hundred advertisements for local business.
The press (one local reporter), the scorer and the announcer
cram themselves into a small blue booth about ten rows back
behond home plate. There is no glass- the inside of the
booth is coated with red infield dust. Fans in the $7 seats in the front few rows have
personal food service. We $4 patrons have to go and pick
up our own food, but that's ok. The hot dogs here don't
come from the Aramark Valley, that distant plastic
farmland that serves the major leagues. They are real, and
fresh, and taste even better for the joy of watching a
minor league ball game slowly unfold in front of us. The Williamsport Crosscutters won, I think, as the
evening faded into night. I didn't really matter to me.
I could stay in that place all season, just watching the
games come and go. Stay there for years, watching home
teams come and go. One day I'd just pass away, with the
visitors leading 3 to 2 in the middle of the fifth. That's
how I want to go. The sign on the way out said See You At The Next Game. I
just hope there's a next game I can see. David Dyte <daviddyte@hotmail.com>
japan endless memories streaming into my mind. Japan is a wonderful place, very modern, very deep, very confusing. wordless... Dansen <dansen@37.com>
During my first visit to Las Vegas, I quickly learned something that I will remember forever. This is it: Las Vegas is one giant, noisy, obnoxious slot machine.
I can't wait to go back.
William Henry <cloudsplitter@gmx.net>
On November 9, 1966, at approximately 5:15 PM, I was sitting in our tenement apartment in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn watching the CBS evening news. Walter Cronkite had just reappeared on the screen after a commercial when he was engulfed in a blizzard of snow. I stared at the screen and watched as he disappeared from view. Listening to the hiss emanating from the speaker, I sat for a minute or more before getting up and turning the television off.
"Time to go," I said to myself. Grabbing my coat, I walked to the back of the apartment and exited into the hall of our third floor apartment.
Upon entering the hall, my vision was assaulted with the fluorescent light blinking erratically from the ceiling, accompanied by a loud buzzing sound. The decision to go to up on the roof came suddenly, and I walked to the back of the hall. Upon reaching the back of the hall, I climbed the unsteady metal ladder at the back of the hall that led to the roof and, removing the large wooden trap door I stepped up onto the roof. Looking to the west, I could see the towers of midtown Manhattan framed in the fading orange light of the setting sun, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Walking to the front of the apartment building, I peered over the edge overlooking Central Avenue and just caught the street lamps as they blinked out, running from the west to the east. Left, right, left, right, left, right, off they winked in quick succession as far as my eye could see.
This was getting too interesting to experience alone.
Running across the rooftops I arrived at the apartment building of my best friend Joey, and using the fire escape ladder I climbed the two floors down to his apartment. Peering in the window, I could see that the lights had already gone out in the apartment, and Joey's mom, Lil, was lighting candles and placing them at different locations in the kitchen. I rapped on the window to get her attention until she finally ambled over, opening the window with one hand while balancing several lit votive candles in the other.
"Hey," she said as I climbed in, "all the lights are out. Didja' have yer lights go out too?"
"I didn't stick around to find out," I replied. "but all the lights just went out on Central Avenue."
Joey came into the kitchen guided by a flashlight and we decided to head for the streets for a closer look at the action. He put on his coat and slipped the flashlight into his pocket.
By now, the sun had gone down. We spent several hours wandering through the neighborhood, observing peoples reaction to the blackout. Pauline Samartano yelled to us from her window and in a quavering voice said, "It's the Russians." Several older Italian women told us, in a hushed and serious tone, that this was a sure sign that the world was coming to an end. Eventually, we decided to make ourselves useful and, with Joe's flashlight, we started directing traffic, but by 10:00 P.M. the traffic had become the occasional car, every now and then. Later, as we sat on the curb talking , Joey said, "You know, Brooklyn kinda looks nice this way." I nodded my head in agreement and was just about to reply when Joe leapt from the curb and with his arms outstretched, spun several times in front of me.
"Look at this light," he shouted as he spun around. "This is moonlight."
I stood up and looked around me and for the first time I noticed that the entire street was aglow with a pale ghostly light. Looking to the sky, I was greeted by the largest full moon I had ever seen. "I've never seen moonlight," I said, staring with disbelief at the pale cast of my shadow on the ground.
"Me neither," he replied and he started to run up the street. "Let's go up on the roof," he shouted over his shoulder.
When we got to the roof I was struck by just how bright the moonlight was, but when I looked west to Manhattan the image I saw was wrong. The massive towers of midtown Manhattan stood in darkly muted silence, like tombstones guarding a city of the dead. New York, New York, the cathedral of light, was no longer standing in defiance of the dark. My muse had been extinguished, and I knew that I would, never again, gaze upon it with awe. I saw it for what it had been all along, a city of stone, and steel, supported by transparent strings of man made light. When we finally left the roof, I felt sad and lost, like someone who had lost a dream full of promise.
It was after midnight when we finally got back to Joe's house. As we entered the apartment from the pitch black hall we stopped abruptly and stood quietly in the doorway, entranced by the vision before us. The other members of Joe's family were sitting around the kitchen table playing cards. On every flat surface in the room were lighted candles of all shapes and sizes, birthday candles, votive candles, hundreds of candles had been placed everywhere. A thousand shadows flickered and moved silently across the walls, in a never ending dance of light and dark.
"Hey, the traffic cops are back," announced Lil to the everyone at the table and then, looking at us, "If you guys have any money, I'll deal ya's in."
Smiling, I sat down at the table. "Who needs Manhattan," I said to myself.
I threw a dollar on the table and said, "Deal me in."
"Oh, oh, a big spender," said someone from the other end of the table, and the others laughed.
Leaning back in my chair, listening to the soft click of shuffling cards, I allowed myself to be mesmerized by hundreds of flickering candles. Looking around at everyone at the table I realized that, although I had lost a myth, I had gained a truth. I had friends, I had light, and I was nestled within the warm embrace of a dream.
I was sad and lost no more.
Kevin Backmann <KevinBDallas@altavista.com>
When I was walking to the laundromat today, I saw a woman get her hair stuck in a tree.
Neil deMause <neild@heremagazine.com>
"Meet me at the north end of Battery Park," said the New Jersey 12 News reporter. "You know, where they put the Cirque de Soleil tents when it's in town?"
There was a 30-story apartment building there that hadn't been there the last I remembered. But after a couple of cell phone calls, we eventually found each other.
We'd picked Battery Park City to meet because it's roughly equidistant
between New Jersey and Brooklyn, and because she thought there would be parking. As far as there not being many cars on the streets, this was true. As far as the streets being blanketed with "NO STANDING" signs, it wasn't so much help.
The news crew finally parked illegally, and we sat down for the interview, on a park bench backed with lush plantings of flowers, New York harbor just over our left shoulders. It was a beautiful setting, exactly the sort of image of urban revitalization that Mayor Giuliani no doubt wants to be remembered by, as he enters his waning political years amidst marital scandal and prostate problems.
We were halfway through the interview when a park police officer approached us. Actually, there were three park police officers. "You can't do that here," said one. "You have to go the other side of that trailer." She pointed a few hundred feet away.
"What's down there?" the reporter asked.
"That's Battery Park."
"And what's this, then?"
"This is Battery Park City. It's private property. Battery Park City Authority. You need to get a permit if you want to film here - go to 2 South End Avenue and..." But we were already packing up our gear and heading down the block, to finish the interview on a slightly rattier-looking park bench, with a threadbare lawn behind it.
"The thing I don't understand," said the reporter before we resumed, "is, weren't those city parks department officers? So the city is paying for its parks department to keep its own citizens off of private land?
"If I were a New York reporter instead of New Jersey, this is something that I would want to look into." Neil deMause <neild@heremagazine.com>
I was driving along Chapman Avenue in Fullerton the other day when I saw a man standing on a street corner, holding a sign. This is not unheard of in Southern California, but two things about the sign struck me as rather unusual. First, it was a very neat sign. Not scrawled on the side of an old cardboard box. Not painted on a bedsheet. He had a nice 3' x 5' piece of clean, white posterboard with crisp, black letters. The neatness and uniformity of the letters makes me think they were store-bought sticky plastic letters, or else done with a stencil. The other unusual thing was the sign's content. It read (just like this, in all capitals with no punctuation): "THE WOLF ALSO ANSWERS YOUR CHILDRENS DOOR". Steven Howard <mrblore@earthlink.net>
Yesterday I decided to become an explorer, but it was raining.
I also don't really have an explorerÌs outfit. That's a problem that must be solved. I need some cute black fatigues or something.
So, until I find something to wear, I'm just going to be an explorer-lite. I'm only going to explore things that I can explore in my career-girl outfit, which I plan to wear everyday this week. When youÌre unemployed, you can wear things for days on end, as long as they donÌt start to smell.
My career-girl outfit is the kind of ensemble that makes old people like you --heels, a denim skirt and a tight vintage sweater. ItÌs very retro, without looking retro, so they find it non-threatening. This is very important, because old people are a great resource for an explorer. The heels are sexy which is also important, because men are a great resource too.
Today started out really great, because the weather is beautiful and I had an appointment on 26th street which gave me an excuse to look at the old EL track on 10th ave. I think I can get up there because there are steps in a parking lot across from a snooty bar called The Park. I just have to get past the razor wire. Obviously, IÌll need an explorerÌs outfit for that, so IÌm putting it on hold. A helmet would be both sensible and chic, but is it too much?
Anyway, after chatting with a Con-Ed man about the safety precautions needed in manholes, I thought I'd go check out the old IRT City Hall station under city hall. Obviously, I wasnÌt going to track-walk because IÌm only an explorer-lite, but I think about buying a fancy fluorescent flashlight and some glow sticks (real cavers use glow sticks) as I ride the express train down to Brooklyn Bridge. I wonder how much a global positioning device costs.
At Brooklyn Bridge there is a conductor leaning out of the 6 train, which is empty, and the doors are closed. You know the stereotype of the timid fat guy with glasses whoÌs best friend is the internet? Well, this guy is that, plus a few pounds and some really huge retro-square glasses. HeÌs so perfectly cast, heÌs awesome. And when I ask him if I can ride around the loop and see City Hall, he lights up with excitement and opens the door without saying a word.
Excited to find a kindred spirit, he joins me in the passenger area and chatters away about the secrets of the subway subculture. Yes, I tell him, I've been to subwaynyc.org. Yes, IÌve read subtalk.
And let me just tell you, Subtalk is one of the best bulletin boards on the internet. Conductors, trainspotters and ham-radio operators all gather there to gossip about the subways. TheyÌre very preoccupied with schedules and car models, but the way they talk about Redbirds and timetables is very passionate and pure. I made a promise to the conductor to read his posts, but I admit that I canÌt remember his screen name now.
I almost donÌt notice as we pull past the platform. All yellow arches, and broken skylights with light pouring in, the station is somehow better than I imagined, because it has decayed. It hasnÌt been vandalized, but better than that, it hasnÌt been scrubbed and preserved. ItÌs authentic.
And when I come up above ground to find the source of the light below, an officer points out the glass tiles in slabs of cement that he swears let the sunlight into the station. I am doubtful, and I ask some old people.
There is actually a little bit more to this story, but it's late and I'm tired of typing. Sally <sally@moth-nyc.com>
At the back end of the Coney Island-bound Jay Street platform -- not far
from
where I once saw a middle-aged African-American man stumble as he got off the train, then abruptly pitch backwards, unconscious, to the platform, while we all stared in silence until a younger man, also black, berated us for our inaction then called the police, who arrived within minutes and proceeded to question the unconscious man while prodding him roughly with their shiny black shoes -- stood a large pile of fresh, uncooked string beans. No one paid them any mind either. Neil deMause <neil@demause.net>
When my friend Dan and his parents moved from Clarkston to Waterford back in, I think it was, 1996 or 1997, we all teased him mercilessly. After all, Clarkston is a well-off, historic, if rather pretentious burg (full name: The City of the Village of Clarkston) with a good school system and a low crime rate. Waterford, on the other hand, is Clarkston's ridiculous next-door neighbor: a sprawling suburban wasteland of broken concrete and strip malls. The roads wind around each other randomly, often curving to avoid the sudden appearance of a lake, other times ending abruptly at the water's edge. The people are largely stereotyped as rednecks (the city is often referred to as 'Watertucky'), which is understandable, if not totally correct. There certainly are enough 80s Camaros and Firebirds driving around to support it, though. So a move from Clarkston to Waterford is inevitably going to seem like a giant step down. It's overstating it to say it was a move from the penthouse to the outhouse, but that's just how we overstated it. Dan, for his part, laughed it off. He didn't have any control over where his parents wanted to live. Besides, with college coming up, we were all moving to Kalamazoo, which is a whole other sort of crappy town. I eventually dropped out of school and moved back in with my parents in Clarkston. This wasn't an optimal living arrangement, so once I felt financially independent enough, I decided to get my own place. The apartment search didn't go all that well, and I wound up moving to an apartment complex in, you guessed it, Waterford. I'd like to say that my time living in Waterford has changed my view of it, that I've seen the true face of the city and, the populist man of the people that I am, learned to love it for what it is. My brother and I are in the parking lot of the strip mall around the corner from my apartment complex. We've just picked up a pizza and are on our way back to my car with it when a shout comes from across the lot. We look over and see a couple at the Mobil station screaming at each other. The man finishes pumping the gas into his Camaro and enters the vehicle. He starts the engine and begins to move before his girlfriend, or wife, or whatever, can get in. "Jimmy, don't you dare leave without me," she screams. The car stops for a second, then speeds off. "Jimmy, you son of a bitch! Come back here!" The Camaro is gone. Steve Bernard Jr <sbernard@earthling.net>
It's gray. It's pouring sleet and frozen rain. The wind rises and falls in gales, knocking stuff over. There are cops in riot gear everywhere, security checkpoints around seemingly every corner. A nice day for marching bands, large men in suits and cowboy hats, and women in sables and minks to usher in another new era like the one that we just had.
I'm being pursued down a Washington, DC street by several squad cars and police vans, along with about two hundred other people, mostly "black-bloc" anarchists and the journalists who love them (myself included). For those who don't know, black-bloc folks are the ones the New York Times calls "self-styled anarchists," as if "Democrat" and "Republican" were not labels of choice so much as pre-ordained cosmic identities.
Anyway, since the IMF protests in 2000, the DC Police had gotten wise to some cherished anarchist tactics, and so cleared the city of seemingly every newspaper box and un-anchored garbage can, making it difficult for those among us who were so inclined to impede the progress of the various police vehicles that were driving into the crowd and forcing protestors into dead-end rat-traps full of baton-and-teargas-wielding riot cops. The wind and rain lashed our faces and our video equipment, and it seemed likely that this game of cat-and-mouse might end as so many have these past 14 months: in a cloudy denouement of teargas and blood, cheap arrests and unconstitutionally high bails.
And then the cops pushed us down what must have been the only sidestreet in town where no one bothered to get rid of the big hunks of metal that line most urban thouroughfares these days. Black-bloc folks instantly yelped in delight, for they know the tools of their trade when they see them. Within seconds the middle of the street was littered with trash cans and -- thank the fourth estate for something -- those great square hunks of aluminum bearing the corporate media logos of the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal. Experienced hands cloaked in black gloves lay the jetsam of the information age down at strategic angles across the boulevard; looking back, we all laughed as cop cars and vans came screeching to a halt in our wake. And the rain kept coming down as they radioed for backup. Whose streets, indeed. Peter Cenedella <peetboy@aol.com>
We lived in subdivisions my entire 16 years in Orlando. The first was called Bel Air East. At the time, I did not know what Bel Air was. I did not know it was a fancy town in California. I knew only that that was the name mounted in large cursive letters on the two low, stuccoed walls that flanked the entrance to the neighborhood. The walls were a powdery gray color, and the letters were a faded, chalky blue. But the house was newÛthe whole neighborhood was, in factÛand this was a tremendous point of pride for my father. WeÌd moved to Orlando from Long Island, New York, from a ranch-style house with real wooden shingles and a blacktop driveway that my mother carefully re-tarred once a year. We had trees, a large front lawn, and woods behind the house. My parents hosted clam bakes, back in the days when my dad could enjoy a can of Budweiser with friends without any sense of greater implications, without any sense of irony or having to prove anything. In Long Island, there was no sign on our neighborhood to announce where we were, and I canÌt say such signs ever made sense to me when I first encountered them in Florida. But weÌd had to leave New York. Had some financial problems and were trying to start over again. Turn over a new leaf, was the cliche my parents repeated to inquisitive relatives. So if we had to start from scratch, at least we could start with a new house that had a living room and den and a room for my brother and one for me. This was the rationale. But our three-bedroom post in Bel Air was far from rational. The neighbors next door took their mediocre cinderblock and faux-stone house and reveled in the mediocrity. They made a crude bedroom out of the garage, everything handmade and jerry-rigged. They discarded trash on their crabgrass lawn. Their bug-eyed mutt minced her way around our cul de sac, her exhausted teats nearly dragging the sidewalk as she chased after nothing in particular. The neighbor on the other side of us happily brought out his shotgun whenever his temper raged, and this was often. His daughter, lumpy and disconsolate, worried the one nerve this fellow had left after the war (from the looks and sound of him, in his tank-top undershirt and his Jack Daniels-tinged Southern accent, youÌd think it was the Civil), after his wife left them, after he wound up in the faux luxury of East Orlando. And then there was us, with our precise ways, our immaculately groomed lawn, the skinny sapling the developer had planted in our front yard secured with stakes and wire and our resolve never to make the word yÌall a part of our vocabulary. kristina feliciano <bummerdrag@yahoo.com>
"Hold it! Just one moment, if you please." Three seconds into my first impressions of the Conneaut Lake Blue Streak and I'm prevented from boarding the train by a grizzled old ride operator in mechanics' overalls. The fellow leans into the seat I'm about to occupy and scoops up forty-five cents in change off the floor, left behind from the open pockets of an unwary rider. He leans back up and grins at me through an exceptionally cracked mouthful of teeth. "That's m'tip for the evening, there. Hop in and enjoy your ride." Conneaut Lake Park is in the middle of nowhere. Geographically, it's just about halfway between Erie and Pittsburgh but fundamentally speaking, it's the middle of nowhere. And frankly, I couldn't be happier. I was here on a complete whim, my road trip plans taking me from Boston to Myrtle Beach by way of Pittsburgh, and I just happened to notice Conneaut Lake off to the side of I-79. None of the locals I talked to near Meadville knew if the park was open. This was not a good sign. Conneaut Lake Park has hit on some hard times recently, the center of a major battle between small-town politicos and local entrepreneur ego, and it wasn't very certain in the spring if the park would open for this summer, or any other summer for that matter. I was determined not to let this park slip on away without experiencing it. Too many parks in the past I've lost -- Lincoln, Idora, Crystal Beach -- and besides, if I couldn't get in to Conneaut, I could still make Pittsburgh by nightfall and all would be well. The park was open. But only for another hour or so. I felt somehow like I'd beaten the odds, that I'd gotten incredibly lucky, that I'd made it to Brigadoon or something. I paid five dollars for a ride-all-rides wristband. I was about to pay an exorbitant amount for ride tickets, but the elderly lady in the ticket booth said "Trust me, dear, save your money. You'll be able to ride plenty with the bracelet before we close." And she was right, bless her heart. Conneaut Lake Park is an old park. It's situated on an old resort lake. Its adjoining hotel has no hot water. Or electricity, so I was told by a fellow enthusiast, but I'm somewhat dubious of that claim. The men's bathrooms have trough urinals, though, I witnessed those first-hand. There's an old dark ride that smells like it should -- of axle grease and old musty wood. One of the last three remaining Tumble Bug rides, once as ubiquitous as a roller coaster in the American amusement park, is here at Conneaut. But I was really here for one thing and one thing only -- the Blue Streak.
Built in 1937, this wooden out-and-back coaster has a reputation among enthusiasts as a rough yet enjoyable ride. It's also considered a Coaster Classic by the American Coaster Enthusiasts, by virtue of its beautiful old art deco Century Flyer trains which have minimal restraints -- a single lapbar that can be either down when the ride is in motion, or up when the ride is stopped. ACE members love to be flung around in all possible directions, see, and any wood coaster without seat dividers or individual stapling-you-in lapbars (and headrests so you can see better) is a Classic in their definition. And the Blue Streak definitely throws you in as many directions as it can. It's deceptively small, the Blue Streak. Over time the trees around the coaster have grown up, overtaking it in terms of height. So now the lift hill only barely crests the top of the trees before plunging into the thick overgrowth. You're afraid to put your hands up the first few times riding for fear of snagging a branch. To add to the psychological sucker punch, the entire structure looks flimsy and creaky, in desperate need of a paint job. Funny how a coat of paint adds years to a coaster's perceived lifespan. The Blue Streak, which is more flaky gray than blue, looks as if it was built in somebody's backyard by a "handyman" with a stack of Time-Life books and an instructional video by Bob Vila. The entire ride is missing a handrail on the left-hand side. I assumed it was a maintenance issue, but was later told that's the original ride design. It gives the rider on the left-hand side a brand-new feeling of vulnerability. The ride is as organic as they come. Three hills out, a turnaround, bunny hops back. Gravity takes over as soon as you leave the lift, and treats you to an impressive display of g-forces as it lifts you up, hurls you over, hauls you down, smushes you against your seat, leaving you giddy at the final brake run and ready for another ride. The night came upon us and things got progressively darker and darker. Bats circled dangerously close to the crests of the hills, giving me another reason to watch my hands. And then, on one particular run, sitting near the back, I watched as the entire train gave off a beautiful shower of sparks as it made its way around the far turnaround. For a brief moment I felt as if I was in a Barry Levinson film -- all atmosphere, silent except for some ethereal music in the background, all slow-motion, all sparking -- enough Profound Moment to choke a cow. I guess metal on metal does that to a person. What did surprise and impress me was that in the short span of one hour, for five dollars, I had more fun and enjoyed more rides on a roller coaster than I had in an entire day at a local Six Flags megapark. Support your traditional amusement parks. Patronize the family-owned parks. Spend a day at the old trolley park near your home -- yeah, the one you haven't been to since you were 9. Forego the large corporate-run "vacation destinations" just this once. It's only a day out, not a damn week. Take the kids. Pack a picnic lunch. Ride the rickety roller coaster, even just once, so you can brag about it later on. Watch eyes light up at the sight of the old hand-carved carousel. We can't let more history simply just fade out over the roar of a bulldozer. R. Noyes <spatula@innuendo.com>
We visited the Thunderbolt on a cold, grey Sunday- two days
after the bulldozers had been. The boardwalk side fence was
gone, so people trailed in and out of the lot, picking over
the twisted wreckage for a souvenir or one last photograph.
It felt like- no, it was- a wake for an old friend.
Three coaster cars stood to one side, decaying under
the weight of 18 years of rain. The once proud sign at the
side of the coaster lay smashed amidst the ruins. We made
our circuit, took our souvenirs and photographs, and walked
away.
Go while you can. Soon, nothing will be there at all. David Dyte <ddyte@cricket.org>
The line between Eaton County and Barry County is understated, but
absolute. The perfectly straight road we've been driving on for miles
continues on, although it is now called 'Bismark'. I mention to Lisa that
if I were spelling it, I'd add a 'c' and make it 'Bismarck', but she
doesn't respond. The roads seem to stretch endlessly in either direction, past corn fields and ranch homes and cow pastures. I imagine they all must end somewhere: a lake, perhaps, or a freeway, or some other boundary more impassable than the county line. The change in pavement is dramatic, however. Two lanes of smooth asphalt is replaced by one lane of rough blacktop. No speed limit signs are in sight. I quip to Lisa that this must be a way to keep speeds down by not offering servicable pavement. She laughs. I don't think to ask her what Eaton County has that Barry doesn't. I guess the East Jordan Iron Works are on the other side of the line, but this doesn't actually occur to me until long afterward. The house where Lisa grew up is barely 500 feet into Barry County. Across the street is her grandfather's house. Her house is a pleasant ranch-style with a dirt driveway. This side of the line seems just as nice as the other side. So what's up with the pavement? Steve Bernard Jr <sbernard@earthling.net>
I've been living with my mother, again, this time for a year or so. Now I'm working for her boss, and have been house-sitting for a friend of his for a couple weeks. This is only the second person I've house-sat for in Seattle in 10 years. Nice house, but both of the two bathrooms are upstairs! Wierd. Across the street is a Catholic School, but it's a residential 'hood. We had a film crew doing something a block or so away for a week. I didn't ask what they were doing, but one morning something happened at the school--it sounded like a pep rally. My first thought was that it was related to the film crew...Anyway, I'd like to do more house (and/or houseboat) sitting, for a week, two weeks, longer if possible. Thornton Kimes <redbeardedguy@yahoo.com>
There were some strange things about the bus. One was the noise it made.
One of us was recovering from knee surgery, so we asked the bus driver to
"kneel" it for us. He said, "Hold your ears," and the horn went off
the whole time the bus was lowering. The whole time. The
other thing was the map that was posted behind the driver. It was an
ordinary enough Bronx bus map, except of course that we were in Brooklyn,
not the Bronx. And it had something written on it, up at the top where the
north Bronx shaded into Westchester County. Written in big black
magic-marker letters. And the last weird thing was what it said,
which was: THE BRONX IS
NAMED AFTER THE BRONX RIVER. Just like that. Which couldn't be right, but still and all you've gotta admire its conviction.
Neil deMause <neil@demause.net>
I spent a week once in a town called Faro, Yukon, about 200 km
northeast of Whitehorse. One-industry towns live and die as their
industry does, and the viability of any given mine is completely
dependent on the price of its product. Faro, a collection of largely
pre-fab housing and ATCO trailers, exists entirely to service an
enormous open-pit lead-zinc mine a short distance north of town, and is
for some odd reason populated largely by transplanted Newfoundlanders.
The mine had previously been opened and closed several times; on one of
the few days I wasn't working, my co-workers and I toured the pit.
There was a rather forced optimism in our guide's voice as he spoke of
the mine's re-opening, then in progess. Apparently they had great plans
for cleaning up the "desert" left by thirty years of mine tailings,
treating their outflow, and in general making the Faro mine clean, by
mining standards. Not to mention bringing back employment to the town's
die-hard residents.
A few months after leaving Faro, I read in the newspaper that the price
of zinc had dropped, and the Faro mine was closing again.
Andrew Frederiksen
Excerpt from an online conversation I'm having: 'Um, yeah, I have an actual cat. It is white. And skittish. In fact, that s exactly what Seattle was like.' Steve Bernard <sbernard@earthling.net>
"You are journalist, yes?" asks the shopkeeper. That's what it says on the
notebook I've scuttled down the narrow aisles crowded with file folders
and
cardboard boxes to retrieve: REPORTER'S NOTEBOOK. "I used to think I would
be a
journalist, back in the old -- in the Ukraine. But there, journalism is different. You have your opinion, they don't care what it is, you just write official government opinion. Even if you write sports, you give the official government opinion. And let me tell you, it's not that different now -- a little bit, but Yeltsin, Putin, it's still the same. And here, I understand, is a little like that, too, with the government, there's some things the New York Times cannot say. But at least you can have maybe Safire on the right, somebody else on the left -- opinion." I mention worries about the just-announced AOL-Time Warner merger, and tell the story I heard about how already, whenever Warner Brothers releases a movie, it's automatically placed on the cover of Entertainment Weekly (a Time Inc. magazine). "Exactly!" he says excitedly. "Monopoly! Look over there," he says, pointing to a shelf of paper party plates emblazoned with characters from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. "When I started in this business, there were hundreds of companies making party goods, each with their own artists, their own designs. Now, how many?" He holds up three fingers. "It should not be like this. Should be many companies, each with own creativity, own opinion." It's like Barnes and Noble, I suggest, recalling how he had once before told me of how the superstore's arrival down the block had led money-hungry commercial landlords to hike rents up and down the street, driving many small stores to close up shop. "Exactly! Like Staples! They come in, everybody else go out, and then if you don't like them, too bad. But what you going to do? What I think, I think the Internet will get rid of them all. We'll all be on the Internet. But what you going to do? We are all just witnesses."
Neil deMause <neild@heremagazine.com>
It's 1:31 in the office on a frozen holiday afternoon which none of us
particularly want to be spending at work, and a small black ant is
crawling
across the back corner of my desk. The office insect life loves my
cluttered corner, home of coffee cups and empty coke bottles. The
office
bulldog also loves my desk, for less obvious reasons. My current guess
is
that he's developed an attachment to the stuffed wallaby guarding the
stack
of press releases lying against my chair. Bulldog spends quite a bit
of
time staring at the wallaby. The phones should be ringing, or I should
be
typing, but it's Monday and I haven't yet ingested enough caffeine to
motivate me into action. Instead, I'm watching the ant as he
encounters my
rolodex and pauses, then winds around one quarter turn and starts
marching
around the obstacle.
Stacy Cowley <stacy@siliconalleyreporter.com>
Amtrak conductor announcement pulling into New Haven station (where there's a long layover as the trains switch from electric to diesel engines, the power and lights shutting down, and the train car suddenly becoming just a silent metal building, nowhere to go for awhile): "Those of you who do engage in gambling, Connecticut is a proud sponsor of Powerball! You have ample time to go into the station and buy tickets."
Neil deMause <neild@heremagazine.com>
So it's New Year's Day, the year 2000, and my girlfriend Gillian and I have come to Sedona, Arizona. Sedona is the capital of rampant, unrepentant New Age-ism, and we've come armed with a simple question: is it all a bunch of hokum, a load of hooey? The much-ballyhooed millennium seems an ideal time to find out whether there's any redeeming value to this peculiarly American form of redemption.
After browsing at the New Age Center with its shelves full of pricy crystals, pyramids, books on alien abduction, and trance-inducing CDs, we decide that we will attend a "Channeling Circle" for $20 a head. When we arrive in the small upstairs room it is after dark, and the stereo plays some variation on the Yanni/Tesh tinkling-bells riff. Our "Lightworkers" usher us in. They are Scottie Littlestar and Linda Star-something (I didn't catch it), both middle-aged white women, and Dean, a somewhat younger white man whose flier identifies him as "Dean of Light." The music is to clear the room, we are told, of the wafting dead energy from recent sessions past. Twelve of us have plunked down our millennial mad money to sit in a circle and receive messages from the ether, as channeled through our Lightworkers. There is much anticipation in the room, what with it being the dawn of a new era and all. Everyone is anxious to find what the suddenly impending future may hold. A retiree to my left strikes up a chat about the more mundane topic of Time Magazine's People of the Century TV show. We talk historical figures -- you know, Marx, Hitler, Edison -- until those old vibes have been musically swept from the room.
Ms. Littlestar asks us to close our eyes and leads us in a blessing, which to my surprise invokes "Jesus the Christ" several times (she will later clarify to an uneasy Buddhist from Canada that she is referring to "that positive Christ energy," not the historical Jesus, and that there is nothing exclusive about her use of the "term").
The channeling begins as scheduled, after a few plugs. ("If you feel a connection with any of us, our cards are available just outside the door, take one on your way out." Later, I note that all the Lightworkers' business cards have their rates: $35 for 15 minutes, $85 an hour.)
I don't know about you, but I never have been to one of these before, so I am interested to learn that this particular spirit channeling looks a lot like any savvy storefront gypsy reading your tea leaves. It's simple detective work, not particularly psychic, just noticing clues. For example, a woman across from me is wearing little wire spectacles, overalls, and work boots. She is at least 45 years old, with long gray hair. Scottie Littlestar closes her eyes for a moment, rears her head back, shakes a little, then points at this woman. "The earth," she says. "You are close to the earth. I'm getting messages that have to do with the earth." "Well, I garden and work outside a lot," says the overall-clad aging hippie. Later they turn to the only black man in attendance, who looks like he is humoring his wife, and Dean-of-Light asks him: "Do you work with kids, maybe disadvantaged children?" "No," the man smiles patiently. Dean continues: "Your heart is like a big grin. You have just a big smile for a heart." Linda Star-whatever thinks she has a message from beyond: "Do you do something having to do with basketball? Do you play basketball?" "No," says the man. "What DO you do?" asks Scottie Littlestar. "Financial Management," the man replies. "WOW!!!" exclaim all three Lightworkers. "You need to give yourself a vacation!" Scottie says. "Maybe become a Big Brother and play basketball with some disadvantaged kids, that'd be good for you." We may be living in a new century, even a New Age, but we are, after all, in Arizona.
Anyway, when it's all over, I start talking to the retired guy again. He's really nice, about 70 years old. It came out during the session that his wife had died about five years ago, and that two years after that, depressed, restless, he started going to psychics. "A couple years back," he tells me, "this one past-life regression guy says I got a big Indian walking around behind me. I asked him why. He said that's my spirit guide. So I asked him why I got an Indian spirit guide, me being a German Lutheran from Iowa all my life. He says 'well, cuz you were an Indian in a past life.' He knew I was looking to retire, and he suggested I move to Sedona, to be close to the Indians. I came out here to check it out, but I couldn't afford Sedona no way. So I bought a trailer for $72,000 in Cottonwood. I live in a trailer park down there and drive up here every chance I get." peet cenedella <peetboy@aol.com>
It's amazing how much New Mexicans talk. And they talk fast. At first they're deadpan, testing, but if I give them a little encouragement they never shut up. It's endearing and amusing: shuttle van company conspiracies and kidnappings, Taos Indian curses, Bear Medicine, bubonic plague, ghost stories, pyramid schemes. Wacky. Also I quickly learn never to assume anything about anyone out here. Straight guys sound gay and gay guys look like macho cowboys, Latinas say they're native, and Pueblo kids front like chollas, blast rap from their car stereos. It's all convoluted and individual as hell. It's best to take the path of least resistance, just drift along.
Sheila and I are trying to do that one morning when she accidentally kills a rattlesnake with her truck. She feels bad, says its the most beautiful animal she's ever seen. She'll make it up to rattlesnakes somehow. Sheila works for Fish and Wildlife at the Mexican Wolf sanctuary in the mountains south of Albuquerque. The winch on her truckbed is bent from hauling road-kill elk to feed the wolves. She says she can get me some elk teeth from the carcasses. Maybe hide too. All the bones are bleaching out there in the sun. Shannon Rothenberger <sbr_bear@hotmail.com>
I live in Arlington, Texas. Arlington, Texas is quite like Grand Prairie, Texas, Carrollton, Texas, Richardson, Texas, Mesquite, Texas, Keller, Texas, and Grapevine, Texas. These are all tracts of farmland converted to bedroom/retail suburbia, surrounding the cities of Dallas and Fort Worth (which are themselves largely tracts of farmland converted to bedroom/retail suburbia). A grid of section roads lies across everything. At each intersection of section roads there's a supermarket, a car wash, an Eckerd's, a Blockbuster's, and a chain Mexican restaurant. Freeways get you from one of these intersections to another quicker than driving on the section roads. It is very hot here, so every building is airconditioned and everyone has airconditioning in their cars. You park your car in a parking lot and run into a store before you get too hot. They've started to build large malls where you only have to park once and run twice all day. They are larger than regular malls, and they have 36-plex theatres and theme-park restaurants and three-story video arcades. People usually stay there all day on the weekends. On the weekdays they go to work. Work is airconditioned. Tim Morris <tmorris@uta.edu>
All this driving. "Man on the Moon" is on the Jeep radio every 15 minutes. The sound of LA is all that damp courtyard silence after the leaf blowers leave and the sun is not yet hard and dry. When it's early and people are busy going places, driving. And I can already hear the sound of people going crazy in 1960s buildings because they're not famous. So near and never. LA is a tar pit. Shannon Rothenberger <SBR_BEAR@hotmail.com>
I moved to New York on November 9, from the altogether more
laid back city of Melbourne, Australia. I seem to have taken
up a job as an unpaid tour guide since then. In the last
five days I have taken people to Tom's Restaurant (twice),
Central Park (twice), Prospect Park, the Brooklyn Bridge,
Rockefeller Center (thrice), Battery Park, and the Empire
State Building.
Also, of course, Times Square. We spent new year's eve
there, penned into a small cage at 51st street and 7th
avenue. My brain became so frozen that I started really
believing this *is* the Millennium Capital of the World.
A week ago I found myself saying "a guy on the 34th
street bus said he had a gun and would kill everyone" and
not thinking for a moment that this might be a little
disquieting. I have started wearing a New York Jets shirt.
I am counting the days until the opener at Yankee Stadium.
In short, despite my strenuous claims that I would try so
hard to remain an Aussie ("I'll look in the mirror and say
G'DAY fifty times every morning"), I seem to be a little
more of a New Yorker every day.
Somebody help me before it's too late.
David Dyte <ddyte@cricket.org>
I was in the Detroit suburb of Royal Oak (maybe 25 minutes south of the Detroit suburb of Clarkston where I reside) one Saturday when I was in the eleventh grade. I was with the staff of our brand new school newspaper. We had secured the use of some small Royal Oak-based weekly or other to put together our first issue. This was the first time most of us had been involved with the production of a newspaper, including our faculty advisor. Sure, I had taken a journalism class and worked on my junior high's monthly Wolverine Eccentric, but we were basically coming into the place with a bunch of handwritten articles and loose photos and leaving with a laidout final product. è Or rather, everyone who bothered to stay the entire time, unlike, to name two, me and my writing partner Jeremy. We typed up our column, had someone edit it, discarded their changes, and typeset it. We then left under the pretense of going to eat lunch, and wound up more or less hanging about in downtown Royal Oak for the remainder of the afternoon. Now, there are only two things to do in Royal Oak: eat and shop. I don't know; maybe it's the same everyplace. I honestly don't remember if we actually got anything to eat or not, but I definitely remember shopping. Royal Oak boasts not one, but three indie record stores. I seem to recall buying two cassettes at Off The Record, which was then right on Main Street, but I can only clearly remember one purchase: a tape of Big Star's third album which we listened to in my 1977 White Ford Granada on the way home. Jeremy and I made our way around the corner and passed the local Salvation Army store and decided to go in. è This Salvation Army location, true to form, was filled with some of the most horrendous clothing I've ever seen in my life. There was everything from plaid pants to dayglo t-shirts to Russian-style fur hats. Now, of course, this was 1995, and in my high school, at least, there was a definite place for terrible fashion sense. Depending on who you hung out with, rayon pants could be your ticket to the top of the clique. So Jeremy and I wandered through the store, aimlessly picking up one article of clothing after another, trying it on, and laughing like idiots. We assembled outfits that would make professional golfers jealous, their combined prices never breaking five dollars. I remember looking at myself in the mirror wearing an oversized fur-lined corduroy jacket and craning my neck to shout to my friend how ridiculous it was before placing it back on the rack. A couple minutes later I looked back over in that direction and saw an older black gentleman trying on the same jacket. Now, for all I know this man could have been just as well off financially than my family, or he may have not have been. What I do know is that this was the first time it had really occurred to me that there are people who actually have to shop at the Salvation Army. There are people who can't afford to spend more than a few dollars on their winter clothes, their fur-lined, ridiculous jackets. A small epiphany, I suppose, but enough to make this suburban kid's stomach feel uneasy. I found Jeremy somewhere near the back thumbing through a stack of old records and told him we had to leave. On the walk back to the newspaper building, we ran into a couple of other people from the class who had also skipped out and decided not to go back at all. My last clear memory of that Saturday was turning to Jeremy on the ride back to Clarkston and remarking how Big Star's version of their song Kangaroo was a lot noisier than the cover by This Mortal Coil. Deep, huh? Steve Bernard <sbernard@earthling.net>
I live in Park Slope, which is a rapidly gentrifying area of Brooklyn. (We
just got our second Starbucks.) One of the many benefits of living in the
Slope, along with $1500-a-month one-bedroom apartments and more overpriced
restaurants than should be allowed by the fire code, is riding the F train
into Manhattan. ¶ The F train is a subway line, but like many subway
lines in NYC, it doesn't stay underground. Two stops out of Park Slope, it
soars skyward, peaking at more than 100 feet above ground level over the
Gowanus Canal, before turning northward to avoid the poor neighborhood of
Red Hook and plunging back below the pavement. (The HERE mailbox is in Red
Hook, so I have to descend several nonfunctional escalators and trek under
the Gowanus Expressway every time I want to go in search of subscription
checks.) ¶ The view from the F isn't much -- brownstone and red brick
buildings stretching off up the incline to Prospect Park, the Williamsburg
Bank building in the distance -- but it's nice to pay a brief visit to the
world above ground, and you do get a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty off
in New York Harbor. On one ride, a small boy was watching rapt out the
window, when he suddenly spied the statue. "Look, Mommy!" he cried. "The
Vampire State Building!" ¶ I have another story, about walking down
my
block and passing a child who, asked by his mother what Saturday Night
Live character he wanted to be for Halloween, answered "Dan Quayle." But
I'll save that one for another time. Neil deMause <neild@heremagazine.com>
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