I've been MIA for some time now; between working on other writing projects, surviving the winter weather (NYC in the 50's, woe is me) and working with Kaia on finding a new home in Soho or the UWS, I've been lax in even keeping this space even remotely reminiscent of its once former glory. In short, I was well aware the old template had hit the crapper like a fresh episode of CopRock and the list of links was increasingly less appropriate than Joan Rivers' stand-up act at a Southern Baptists Priest Convention.
But, as Samuel Jackson confessed in Pulp Fiction, I'm trying, Ringo, I'm trying.
Keep your balls -- eyeballs, that is -- peeled on this here site for more uninformative, uninspired, disappointing forays into literary nonsense. I'm sure you'll be disillusioned before long.
But -- for better or worse -- I am definitely back.
-B-
Monday, January 14, 2008
Monday, December 10, 2007
Speeding In Slow Motion
Excuse the primer coat on the walls, ignore the overgrown shrubbery out front, and ignore that leak dripping in the center of this virtual structure; despite the extravagant disrepair, there is and are good reasons for the dreadful conditions, despite any and all malfeasance.
In short: work has been kicking my ass, and more importantly, I've been working on a personal project for the better part of several months. Since it is fiction, the hard part about maintaining this space is finding a day when I am happily and efficiently productive in front of a keyboard but not able or willing to commit said efficient creativity to the fiction but to the HoB. It's an easy, but unfortunate, argument, one in which the HoB always comes up short.
It's not that this space hasn't, doesn't or won't continue to serve as a launch pad, a home away from home and/or a good place for me to share the basis for the firings of what few neural synapses I have left between my ears; the HoB will continue to thrive, and I'll be sure to clean up after I have guests and such. The problem is, however, that to finish my first draft is my chosen goal, and inasmuch as I truly enjoy spouting off herein about nearly everything that crosses my path, I'm almost completely focused on wrapping the first draft and seeing if I can meld everything into one tangible, comprehensive, understandable jumble of spies, guns, nuclear weaponry, technology, boobs and cars. No, it's not a James Bond novel; hence why I didn't use the term "gadgets" anywhere in the description.
In any case, I expect to be back here sometime soon, and I apologize yet again for this edificial malaise.
Or, as they say in Brooklyn, thanks for coming by and for being so patient.
-B-
In short: work has been kicking my ass, and more importantly, I've been working on a personal project for the better part of several months. Since it is fiction, the hard part about maintaining this space is finding a day when I am happily and efficiently productive in front of a keyboard but not able or willing to commit said efficient creativity to the fiction but to the HoB. It's an easy, but unfortunate, argument, one in which the HoB always comes up short.
It's not that this space hasn't, doesn't or won't continue to serve as a launch pad, a home away from home and/or a good place for me to share the basis for the firings of what few neural synapses I have left between my ears; the HoB will continue to thrive, and I'll be sure to clean up after I have guests and such. The problem is, however, that to finish my first draft is my chosen goal, and inasmuch as I truly enjoy spouting off herein about nearly everything that crosses my path, I'm almost completely focused on wrapping the first draft and seeing if I can meld everything into one tangible, comprehensive, understandable jumble of spies, guns, nuclear weaponry, technology, boobs and cars. No, it's not a James Bond novel; hence why I didn't use the term "gadgets" anywhere in the description.
In any case, I expect to be back here sometime soon, and I apologize yet again for this edificial malaise.
Or, as they say in Brooklyn, thanks for coming by and for being so patient.
-B-
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Epitome of Pinstriped Stupidity
This past weekend -- and the past month or so -- was extremely busy. Granted, it needn't take hours to stop in here to update the masses on the exciting things occurring in and around Boogieland. However, being that the past month has been spent preparing for another monster soiree, the arrival of my other half, my cousin's bar mitzvah this past weekend, and a variety of work projects huge and miniscule, it's been a rather eventful 30 or so days.
This past weekend marked, as indicated above, my cousin's bar mitzvah. We piled -- with my grandmother -- into the car and headed north to Westport, CT., and celebrated with the family to watch Mikey become a man. The apple, as it were, does not fall far from the tree. He acquitted himself well and had a lot of fun doing so, despite the pressure, stress and the modern equivalent of keeping up, and we were very happy we were able to enjoy the experience of watching him handle the pressure and the happiness of this, his day.
In another case of the apple does not fall far from the tree, however, we have Hank and Hal Steinbrenner.
Circa 1978, I was indoctrinated into the world of the New York Yankees, a team whose then-biggest superstar, Reggie Jackson, inspired his own candy bar and etched his legacy forever in the hearts of Yankee fans with multi-home run games against the Dodgers in the World Series. Reg-gie! The chants echo on re-broadcasts of Yankee "Classics" on the YES network, and anyone who knows baseball knows Reggie Jackson earned his nickname of "Mr. October."
Now, however, with the Yankees' most recent first round playoff ouster (by a relatively weak Cleveland Indians team), Joe Torre was forced out by the Steinbrenner clan. Of course, this move has further implications. The Steinbrenners, in their emphatic need to demonstrate their high degree of shortsighted stupidity, pushed Joe Torre out of the picture in the same year as three significant Yankees have options as free agents: Andy Pettite, Mariano Rivera and Jorge Posada. Each of these players looked to Joe Torre as a calming influence, as he was the only manager they ever knew (except in Andy Pettite's case, who defected to the Houston Astros for several years and played under other managers). With Joe Torre's departure, none of these players can regard the team as the same one with which they won championships in the 90's, because going forward from here, any failure or success will be supervised by someone other than Joe Torre.
Much more significantly, of course, was the fact that the Yankees also had another significant issue on the front burner to address other than their impending choice of manager to replace Joe Torre: Alex Rodriguez, aka A-Rod, the team's third-baseman, had a choice set forth before him. He could continue with the Yankees or he could opt out of the final three years of the deal he originally signed with the Texas Rangers (and which he took with him when he was dealt to the Yankees). The Yankees, while going about a search to replace Joe Torre as manager, repeatedly indicated they would not negotiate with A-Rod if he decided to opt out of his current deal. Part of the reason why they were so desperate to keep his current deal in place was that part of that deal was the Texas Rangers agreed to pay approximately $21 million of A-Rod's annual $25 million salary over the last three years of the deal. By opting out of the deal, the Yankees will effectively lose that money.
In their attempt at repeating King George's mantra of "It's Good to Be A Yankee," the two morons, Tweedle-Dee (Hank) and Tweedle-Dum (Hal) have effectively said of A-Rod "If he doesn't want the privilege of being a Yankee, then goodbye to him." Except the two nitwits, and their shitbird father, haven't bothered to watch what is happening in their own organization. They have insulted and dismissed Joe Torre (with a silly, incentive-laden, demeaning offer), shown they have little, if any, regard for the real cause of their consecutive playoff dismissals (good starting pitching starting with young, talented pitchers who can reach 90 mph or better with their fastballs), irritated three of their most respected free agents (Pettite can simply leave, and it's very likely he will do so; Mariano Rivera, even at the age of 38, is still a top-notch closer; and Jorge Posada is, both offensively and defensively, an impressive, high-end switch-hitting catcher), and most importantly, given the excuse to A-Rod and his agent to pursue high-end dollars.
If the Yankees remain true to their word and ignore A-Rod's re-free agency and do not attempt to re-sign him, they will impress the hell out of me. Despite A-Rod's incredible regular season achievements, he had no meaningful hits or RBI in the playoffs. As talented as he is, he chokes come playoff-time, and for a team whose only mantra is "Win The World Series or be Cast Aside (Like Joe Torre)," a guy who can't perform in the playoffs doesn't belong here. And frankly, for a guy to be paid $30 million annually, to not perform in the playoffs while I'm paying $250 a ticket is an insult to me as a fan and a season ticket holder. So let the guy walk.
Except the shitheads -- aka Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum -- don't do things in a well-thought-out manner. You have the feeling that, despite Yankees GM Brian Cashman and the Steinbrenner clan warning A-Rod that if he opted out he would be ushered out, you again have the feeling they will go back on their threat and attempt to re-sign him, further demonstrating their desire to make themselves look like morons.
I don't mind that fact; what bothers me is that with every classless, stupid, immature quip, sound-bite or interview one of these idiots offers forth, it tarnishes the Yankees. The Steinbrenners, with their actions and comments over the last month, have solidified themselves in the annals of least classy owners. The way they mistreated and mishandled the departure of Joe Torre was absolutely repulsive. And with their mishandling of those Yankees who will soon depart, their cluelessness and classlessness will have far more disturbing implications. While they trumpet the fact that it's good to be a Yankee, they have shown, in the next few seasons (until they hire another, solid replacement for the recently-departed Joe Torre), it will not be good to be a Yankee. Just a few hours north, Boston was celebrating its second World Series in four years and yet, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum were going on and on about how wonderful it is to be a Yankee. Is it really?
Is it really wonderful to be a Yankee when repeated, continual success (Joe Torre's guiding the team to the playoffs every year he managed the team) was met with increasing criticism? Is it really wonderful to be cast aside or left for dead by a team that operates politically rather than by what is happening on the field? It it really great to play for a franchise that is more concerned with the appearance of facial hair but is willing to sign a 45-year-old pitcher who can't hit 90 on the radar gun, nor can he reach the fourth inning? And is it such a great thing to be forced to listen to a pathetic, sandbox-esque retort to Joe Torre's matter-of-fact explanation that his departure wasn't his own choosing?
The apple, indeed, does not fall far from the tree.
Or, as they say in Yankeeland, it's deja vu all over again.
This past weekend marked, as indicated above, my cousin's bar mitzvah. We piled -- with my grandmother -- into the car and headed north to Westport, CT., and celebrated with the family to watch Mikey become a man. The apple, as it were, does not fall far from the tree. He acquitted himself well and had a lot of fun doing so, despite the pressure, stress and the modern equivalent of keeping up, and we were very happy we were able to enjoy the experience of watching him handle the pressure and the happiness of this, his day.
In another case of the apple does not fall far from the tree, however, we have Hank and Hal Steinbrenner.
Circa 1978, I was indoctrinated into the world of the New York Yankees, a team whose then-biggest superstar, Reggie Jackson, inspired his own candy bar and etched his legacy forever in the hearts of Yankee fans with multi-home run games against the Dodgers in the World Series. Reg-gie! The chants echo on re-broadcasts of Yankee "Classics" on the YES network, and anyone who knows baseball knows Reggie Jackson earned his nickname of "Mr. October."
Now, however, with the Yankees' most recent first round playoff ouster (by a relatively weak Cleveland Indians team), Joe Torre was forced out by the Steinbrenner clan. Of course, this move has further implications. The Steinbrenners, in their emphatic need to demonstrate their high degree of shortsighted stupidity, pushed Joe Torre out of the picture in the same year as three significant Yankees have options as free agents: Andy Pettite, Mariano Rivera and Jorge Posada. Each of these players looked to Joe Torre as a calming influence, as he was the only manager they ever knew (except in Andy Pettite's case, who defected to the Houston Astros for several years and played under other managers). With Joe Torre's departure, none of these players can regard the team as the same one with which they won championships in the 90's, because going forward from here, any failure or success will be supervised by someone other than Joe Torre.
Much more significantly, of course, was the fact that the Yankees also had another significant issue on the front burner to address other than their impending choice of manager to replace Joe Torre: Alex Rodriguez, aka A-Rod, the team's third-baseman, had a choice set forth before him. He could continue with the Yankees or he could opt out of the final three years of the deal he originally signed with the Texas Rangers (and which he took with him when he was dealt to the Yankees). The Yankees, while going about a search to replace Joe Torre as manager, repeatedly indicated they would not negotiate with A-Rod if he decided to opt out of his current deal. Part of the reason why they were so desperate to keep his current deal in place was that part of that deal was the Texas Rangers agreed to pay approximately $21 million of A-Rod's annual $25 million salary over the last three years of the deal. By opting out of the deal, the Yankees will effectively lose that money.
In their attempt at repeating King George's mantra of "It's Good to Be A Yankee," the two morons, Tweedle-Dee (Hank) and Tweedle-Dum (Hal) have effectively said of A-Rod "If he doesn't want the privilege of being a Yankee, then goodbye to him." Except the two nitwits, and their shitbird father, haven't bothered to watch what is happening in their own organization. They have insulted and dismissed Joe Torre (with a silly, incentive-laden, demeaning offer), shown they have little, if any, regard for the real cause of their consecutive playoff dismissals (good starting pitching starting with young, talented pitchers who can reach 90 mph or better with their fastballs), irritated three of their most respected free agents (Pettite can simply leave, and it's very likely he will do so; Mariano Rivera, even at the age of 38, is still a top-notch closer; and Jorge Posada is, both offensively and defensively, an impressive, high-end switch-hitting catcher), and most importantly, given the excuse to A-Rod and his agent to pursue high-end dollars.
If the Yankees remain true to their word and ignore A-Rod's re-free agency and do not attempt to re-sign him, they will impress the hell out of me. Despite A-Rod's incredible regular season achievements, he had no meaningful hits or RBI in the playoffs. As talented as he is, he chokes come playoff-time, and for a team whose only mantra is "Win The World Series or be Cast Aside (Like Joe Torre)," a guy who can't perform in the playoffs doesn't belong here. And frankly, for a guy to be paid $30 million annually, to not perform in the playoffs while I'm paying $250 a ticket is an insult to me as a fan and a season ticket holder. So let the guy walk.
Except the shitheads -- aka Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum -- don't do things in a well-thought-out manner. You have the feeling that, despite Yankees GM Brian Cashman and the Steinbrenner clan warning A-Rod that if he opted out he would be ushered out, you again have the feeling they will go back on their threat and attempt to re-sign him, further demonstrating their desire to make themselves look like morons.
I don't mind that fact; what bothers me is that with every classless, stupid, immature quip, sound-bite or interview one of these idiots offers forth, it tarnishes the Yankees. The Steinbrenners, with their actions and comments over the last month, have solidified themselves in the annals of least classy owners. The way they mistreated and mishandled the departure of Joe Torre was absolutely repulsive. And with their mishandling of those Yankees who will soon depart, their cluelessness and classlessness will have far more disturbing implications. While they trumpet the fact that it's good to be a Yankee, they have shown, in the next few seasons (until they hire another, solid replacement for the recently-departed Joe Torre), it will not be good to be a Yankee. Just a few hours north, Boston was celebrating its second World Series in four years and yet, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum were going on and on about how wonderful it is to be a Yankee. Is it really?
Is it really wonderful to be a Yankee when repeated, continual success (Joe Torre's guiding the team to the playoffs every year he managed the team) was met with increasing criticism? Is it really wonderful to be cast aside or left for dead by a team that operates politically rather than by what is happening on the field? It it really great to play for a franchise that is more concerned with the appearance of facial hair but is willing to sign a 45-year-old pitcher who can't hit 90 on the radar gun, nor can he reach the fourth inning? And is it such a great thing to be forced to listen to a pathetic, sandbox-esque retort to Joe Torre's matter-of-fact explanation that his departure wasn't his own choosing?
The apple, indeed, does not fall far from the tree.
Or, as they say in Yankeeland, it's deja vu all over again.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Speed, Futility and Frustration
Despite my lack of upkeep around here these days, that's not to say I am completely disgusted over the seeming evaporation of the wallpaper, formatting and overall panache I've worked to maintain 'round these parts over the past several years. We're in the process of either sprucing it up or relocating -- or both -- and as soon as I know, so will you.
In the meantime, with respect to the title of this missive, the frustration isn't simply relegated to the HoB's disappearing template. Rather, it refers to a confluence of work-related aggravation, personal aggravation and overall displeasure. First, the overall displeasure part is the fact that the temps have been clocking in in the high 70's up to the mid 80's in NYC over the past few weeks, despite the fact that we've all been waiting -- with bated breath, natch -- for Fall's arrival. So we had a few chilly days -- welcome, Fall -- during the Rosh Hashanah holiday. And then right back to square one with humidity, high temps and the cacophony of smells associated with petrified horse-apples, garbage and sweaty homeless people all rolled up into a nice, breathable package.
Feh.
Personally, despite the fact that Kaia's great and we're speeding towards our three-year anniversary, we're both inundated with work, which, as per usual, makes things difficult. However, since she got a bad cold a few weeks ago and has been doing a lot more sleeping, I've missed being able to get her on the phone -- and keep her there -- for long stretches. Between that and the incredibly unrelenting temps, my apartment is a less-than-wondrous place to be after dark. The a/c is functional but overworked and it's hard to get a lasting sleep when, circa 2ish AM, the fuse blows and the apartment turns into a 79 degree oven. Joy.
Workwise, as I mentioned, we're both going all out. For my special dog-and-pony show, I've been running around in circles trying to wrap something up that should have been resolved a few years ago, and since it involves the immediate loss of about a half-million dollars in tax credit (and, in the long run, a total of about ten million dollars in credits) it's got to be resolved ASAFP. Moreover, since the people with whom I'm working have other things on their plates, I'm handling these spikes at 7AM through 9PM, on weekends, and essentially the situation is like a hopped-up speed freak occupying the left frontal lobe of my brain. We're doing a great job in handling everything that's coming at us -- in both efficient and timely manner -- but it gets weary...no, exhausting...always being "on."
Of course the good news, above and beyond Kaia and I -- is that the holidays passed without excitement (unless by excitement you mean everyone had a pleasant, enjoyable time) and that the fast-approaching party we've arranged for 10/20 is picking up steam as well. Things are, overall, great, but when you have the kind of month I've had, it's hard to appreciate even when you are forced to acknowledge, via the written word, that your girlfriend is awesome, you've got great friends and your family, thankgawd, is all happy and healthy.
Despite all that, I still reserve the right to bitch -- especially about the weather ;-)
In either case, I intend to be back here with far more regularity with which I have been visiting, so check back if you'd like.
In the meantime, with respect to the title of this missive, the frustration isn't simply relegated to the HoB's disappearing template. Rather, it refers to a confluence of work-related aggravation, personal aggravation and overall displeasure. First, the overall displeasure part is the fact that the temps have been clocking in in the high 70's up to the mid 80's in NYC over the past few weeks, despite the fact that we've all been waiting -- with bated breath, natch -- for Fall's arrival. So we had a few chilly days -- welcome, Fall -- during the Rosh Hashanah holiday. And then right back to square one with humidity, high temps and the cacophony of smells associated with petrified horse-apples, garbage and sweaty homeless people all rolled up into a nice, breathable package.
Feh.
Personally, despite the fact that Kaia's great and we're speeding towards our three-year anniversary, we're both inundated with work, which, as per usual, makes things difficult. However, since she got a bad cold a few weeks ago and has been doing a lot more sleeping, I've missed being able to get her on the phone -- and keep her there -- for long stretches. Between that and the incredibly unrelenting temps, my apartment is a less-than-wondrous place to be after dark. The a/c is functional but overworked and it's hard to get a lasting sleep when, circa 2ish AM, the fuse blows and the apartment turns into a 79 degree oven. Joy.
Workwise, as I mentioned, we're both going all out. For my special dog-and-pony show, I've been running around in circles trying to wrap something up that should have been resolved a few years ago, and since it involves the immediate loss of about a half-million dollars in tax credit (and, in the long run, a total of about ten million dollars in credits) it's got to be resolved ASAFP. Moreover, since the people with whom I'm working have other things on their plates, I'm handling these spikes at 7AM through 9PM, on weekends, and essentially the situation is like a hopped-up speed freak occupying the left frontal lobe of my brain. We're doing a great job in handling everything that's coming at us -- in both efficient and timely manner -- but it gets weary...no, exhausting...always being "on."
Of course the good news, above and beyond Kaia and I -- is that the holidays passed without excitement (unless by excitement you mean everyone had a pleasant, enjoyable time) and that the fast-approaching party we've arranged for 10/20 is picking up steam as well. Things are, overall, great, but when you have the kind of month I've had, it's hard to appreciate even when you are forced to acknowledge, via the written word, that your girlfriend is awesome, you've got great friends and your family, thankgawd, is all happy and healthy.
Despite all that, I still reserve the right to bitch -- especially about the weather ;-)
In either case, I intend to be back here with far more regularity with which I have been visiting, so check back if you'd like.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Remember
The House of Boogie has been unoccupied for awhile, but that changes now.
It's unfortunate that it took marking a day like September 11th to remind me that this space is something I need to look after with regularity.
And I intend to continue doing so.
Remember...
-B-
It's unfortunate that it took marking a day like September 11th to remind me that this space is something I need to look after with regularity.
And I intend to continue doing so.
Remember...
-B-
Friday, August 03, 2007
The Wee, Wee Hours
Despite the fact that there's been so much happening in and around my immediate and overall worlds, I haven't found the time to stop by -- yet again -- and the only reason I managed this missive is due to the fact that the intense NYC heat, coupled with allergies and a load of work, has rendered me unable, apparently, to get more than a few hours of sleep at any given time. And although I have lots of things to address in the dark, pre-dawn hours of the morning, dusting, laundry and cleaning in general don't sound nearly as appetizing as do me visiting here to give the place a little sprucing up.
I've been meaning to address the Michael Vick situation: Mr. Vick, as you most likely recall, was recently indicted for his role in a dogfighting enterprise which he bankrolled and, apparently, in which he was a major participant. For most of us, the notion of dogfights -- or even cockfights -- is sort of a non-issue. In this country, we tend to focus on things that seemingly are above ground, and for most people, the concept of dog-fighting isn't even on the radar. So it was so much more appalling that Mr. Vick, who up until the last several months was a relatively upstanding member of the society of pro athletes, was accused of not only bankrolling this operation, but being personally involved in the brutal disposal -- a polite euphemism for barbaric execution -- of dogs deemed not vicious enough for combat.
To expand on this for just a moment, this "disposal" involved electrocution, beating, drowning or -- worse -- repeated slamming of a dog's body onto the ground until it died. How can anyone who performed any of these acts -- specifically, the final item on that list -- consider him- or herself a human being? What kind of person could repeatedly slam another living creature into the ground until it ceased to be alive?
The other noxious tidbit associated with this "industry" is the fact that females and males are trained to compete in the ring, occasionally against one another. This particular fact makes breeding suitable combatants difficult; females are trained to inflict pain on their male counterparts, so finding suitable males to merely survive the mating process is difficult in and of itself. Apparently, to answer this dilemma, some industrious individual invented something called a "rape box" -- essentially, a barrel or some sort of surface to which a female dog is tied to, or onto which strapped into a harness, and the male is permitted to mate with her at his leisure and his safety. Despite the name, this secondary aspect of this "industry," while abhorrent, is not quite as repulsive as the matter-of-fact, brutal disposal of the participants.
Aside from the fact that several NFL players had originally supported Mr. Vick and suggested dogfighting wasn't even illegal (both points they later recanted), it is fairly clear that this issue reveals a disturbing and, frankly, disgusting dichotomy. This is not about financial class -- Mr. Vick has wealth beyond which most Americans cannot even fathom -- this is about character, or lack thereof. Moreover, it also reinforces the fact that no matter how much money one earns, class is something which is inherent in the individual, whether he has millions or nothing.
The other major news story of the day is the tragic collapse of a major commuter bridge in Minnesota yesterday. We've by now all seen the horrific destruction this incident has left behind, both in terms of the physical damage to the bridge and the loss of life it caused. What's worse, however, is the notion that this bridge, like many others around the country, had been listed as needing upgrades/repairs in order to make it safe for use. Those improvements, unfortunately, never came, and the four or more people whose lives were lost as a result are a sad, permanent testament to the pernicious result procrastination can have when combined with government inefficiency.
The main concern, of course, is that because this bridge, like many other American commuter bridges, was built nearly 75 years ago, the traffic patterns for which it was designed and the traffic which it withstood were, and remain, far different. Essentially, without suggesting this will happen again with worse consequences, it certainly does suggest that it's a possibility.
Finally, personally, nothing much of excitement has been happening. In tandem with the weather, the workload and the aforementioned lack of sleep, I've been doing as much as I can both in and outside the office to insure I'm ahead of the curve. Since a lot of my work requires me to be downtown and put in face-time at city agencies, I've borne the brunt of one of the most shitty weeks, weather-wise, that the New York summer dishes out. It's been between 85 and 95, from my understanding, this whole week, and leaving my air-conditioned, 70-degree apartment in the morning to hit the bus stop a block away is an exercise that makes me wonder why I even bother showering at all.
Last weekend a friend and I hit Costco for a variety of goodies, and I wound up getting everything I needed and then some. I mention this because I bought a case of Diet Coke in cans and a case of Poland Spring 24oz water in sports bottles. Normally this supply would last me months, but due to the extreme weather, I've sucked down way too much DC and the Poland Spring, thanks to regular work-outs, won't last another ten days. It could be worse, of course; we could be living in the age of tap water and fans without air conditioning.
Finally, Kaia and I have been addressing her impending month-long stay in NYC ahead of her eventual move here, but between her schedule and mine, we haven't been able to spend much time searching for sublets. We both know where we're headed but at the same time, it's frustrating when reality throws obstacles in our path, and 3,000 miles between us is only one thereof.
As a post-script, the movie 300 came out on DVD and since I never got around to seeing it in the theater (despite wanting desperately to see it), I opted to get it on DVD. Since I upgraded to a widescreen HDTV, I've been doing a lot of work and watching programs I've recorded on the HD-DVR (the hard-drive recorder). Essentially this means I have an infinite -- literally -- supply of stuff to watch. Between that and the fact this week is "Shark Week" -- Discovery Channel's week-long series of shark-related programming -- I haven't had the time to fire up 300 on my DVD player. Earlier in the week I planned on watching it this weekend, but since I've got plans for almost the entire weekend I honestly don't know how or when I'll find the time to watch this film, which is sort of aggravating. It's akin to being all dressed up with nowhere to go, except I've got shitloads of places to go and nothing to wear. Or something like that.
Nevermind. It's early, I'm overtired, and I'm done apologizing ;-) Until next time...
-B-
I've been meaning to address the Michael Vick situation: Mr. Vick, as you most likely recall, was recently indicted for his role in a dogfighting enterprise which he bankrolled and, apparently, in which he was a major participant. For most of us, the notion of dogfights -- or even cockfights -- is sort of a non-issue. In this country, we tend to focus on things that seemingly are above ground, and for most people, the concept of dog-fighting isn't even on the radar. So it was so much more appalling that Mr. Vick, who up until the last several months was a relatively upstanding member of the society of pro athletes, was accused of not only bankrolling this operation, but being personally involved in the brutal disposal -- a polite euphemism for barbaric execution -- of dogs deemed not vicious enough for combat.
To expand on this for just a moment, this "disposal" involved electrocution, beating, drowning or -- worse -- repeated slamming of a dog's body onto the ground until it died. How can anyone who performed any of these acts -- specifically, the final item on that list -- consider him- or herself a human being? What kind of person could repeatedly slam another living creature into the ground until it ceased to be alive?
The other noxious tidbit associated with this "industry" is the fact that females and males are trained to compete in the ring, occasionally against one another. This particular fact makes breeding suitable combatants difficult; females are trained to inflict pain on their male counterparts, so finding suitable males to merely survive the mating process is difficult in and of itself. Apparently, to answer this dilemma, some industrious individual invented something called a "rape box" -- essentially, a barrel or some sort of surface to which a female dog is tied to, or onto which strapped into a harness, and the male is permitted to mate with her at his leisure and his safety. Despite the name, this secondary aspect of this "industry," while abhorrent, is not quite as repulsive as the matter-of-fact, brutal disposal of the participants.
Aside from the fact that several NFL players had originally supported Mr. Vick and suggested dogfighting wasn't even illegal (both points they later recanted), it is fairly clear that this issue reveals a disturbing and, frankly, disgusting dichotomy. This is not about financial class -- Mr. Vick has wealth beyond which most Americans cannot even fathom -- this is about character, or lack thereof. Moreover, it also reinforces the fact that no matter how much money one earns, class is something which is inherent in the individual, whether he has millions or nothing.
The other major news story of the day is the tragic collapse of a major commuter bridge in Minnesota yesterday. We've by now all seen the horrific destruction this incident has left behind, both in terms of the physical damage to the bridge and the loss of life it caused. What's worse, however, is the notion that this bridge, like many others around the country, had been listed as needing upgrades/repairs in order to make it safe for use. Those improvements, unfortunately, never came, and the four or more people whose lives were lost as a result are a sad, permanent testament to the pernicious result procrastination can have when combined with government inefficiency.
The main concern, of course, is that because this bridge, like many other American commuter bridges, was built nearly 75 years ago, the traffic patterns for which it was designed and the traffic which it withstood were, and remain, far different. Essentially, without suggesting this will happen again with worse consequences, it certainly does suggest that it's a possibility.
Finally, personally, nothing much of excitement has been happening. In tandem with the weather, the workload and the aforementioned lack of sleep, I've been doing as much as I can both in and outside the office to insure I'm ahead of the curve. Since a lot of my work requires me to be downtown and put in face-time at city agencies, I've borne the brunt of one of the most shitty weeks, weather-wise, that the New York summer dishes out. It's been between 85 and 95, from my understanding, this whole week, and leaving my air-conditioned, 70-degree apartment in the morning to hit the bus stop a block away is an exercise that makes me wonder why I even bother showering at all.
Last weekend a friend and I hit Costco for a variety of goodies, and I wound up getting everything I needed and then some. I mention this because I bought a case of Diet Coke in cans and a case of Poland Spring 24oz water in sports bottles. Normally this supply would last me months, but due to the extreme weather, I've sucked down way too much DC and the Poland Spring, thanks to regular work-outs, won't last another ten days. It could be worse, of course; we could be living in the age of tap water and fans without air conditioning.
Finally, Kaia and I have been addressing her impending month-long stay in NYC ahead of her eventual move here, but between her schedule and mine, we haven't been able to spend much time searching for sublets. We both know where we're headed but at the same time, it's frustrating when reality throws obstacles in our path, and 3,000 miles between us is only one thereof.
As a post-script, the movie 300 came out on DVD and since I never got around to seeing it in the theater (despite wanting desperately to see it), I opted to get it on DVD. Since I upgraded to a widescreen HDTV, I've been doing a lot of work and watching programs I've recorded on the HD-DVR (the hard-drive recorder). Essentially this means I have an infinite -- literally -- supply of stuff to watch. Between that and the fact this week is "Shark Week" -- Discovery Channel's week-long series of shark-related programming -- I haven't had the time to fire up 300 on my DVD player. Earlier in the week I planned on watching it this weekend, but since I've got plans for almost the entire weekend I honestly don't know how or when I'll find the time to watch this film, which is sort of aggravating. It's akin to being all dressed up with nowhere to go, except I've got shitloads of places to go and nothing to wear. Or something like that.
Nevermind. It's early, I'm overtired, and I'm done apologizing ;-) Until next time...
-B-
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