Ewwww
Thanks to Hipstomp for sharing this darling moment of possible political suicide. Unfortunately, I don't think most people would be too shocked by this as a) it was accidental and b) people don't even blink an eye at this stuff anymore. What's a grope here or there?
For my international readers, in case you can't see it: Saxby Chambliss' Holiday Message
On a separate note:
Holidays are just around the corner, and the Christmas spirit is never so apparent anywhere as it in any retail store. I went to Pret a Manger recently to enjoy a nice lunch with myself, a salad, and a fascinating New Yorker article about Bernanke. After I had paid and settled at a little round table with comfortable bench seating, I found I couldn't focus on the article let alone chew my salad in any semblance of peace. Possibly because something similar to the below was playing in the background or foreground depending on how you looked at the situation.
Christmas pop songs are an abomination. Oh wait, except for this one.
Personally, I'm a little more fond of the more dramatic and stern Christmas song, "Carol of the Bells". This version makes me want to get up and Riverdance! Not sure what the medieval costume party is all about though. This one is just strange, and the ambiguous political message via a montage of flags and images are fitting of a Madonna concert.
Anyways, happy holidays.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Don't lose sight of the bigger picture, President-elect Obama
The world as we know it is crumbling around us in small and large explosions - 9/11, Katrina and friends, the sub-prime mortgage crisis, the credit crunch, the end of investment banks, war(s), genocide(s) - leaving me with a pretty bleak outlook. Everyone is waiting with bated breaths for the President-elect Barack "Messiah" Hussein Obama to perform his magic and bring about categorical, wholesale change.
I haven't lost hope or any faith in this man, but one can tell that the weight of the world lies heavily on his shoulders. He is only one man, so I'm crossing my fingers that he doesn't collapse under the weight of the world's expectations. My only hope is that Obama and his staff (because governing is not the result of one man's effort) never loses sight of the larger picture. He has proven himself brilliant at perceiving the nuances of complex issues, and understanding that nothing is black and white, red or blue, or even gray or purple. As Thomas Friedman succinctly said, "I'm not a partisan. I'm not at war with Republicans or liberal Democrats. Most people are like that. They're not hyper-partisan--they just want you to come up with the right answer."* And the right answers are investing in the long-term, never compromising the future of our country for short-term relief, and holding onto integrity despite and in spite of 'the way things are done' in Washington.
One imperative issue that cannot slip off Obama's administration's radar: EDUCATION.
*From The New Yorker, "The Bright Side" by Ian Parker (November 10, 2008)
I haven't lost hope or any faith in this man, but one can tell that the weight of the world lies heavily on his shoulders. He is only one man, so I'm crossing my fingers that he doesn't collapse under the weight of the world's expectations. My only hope is that Obama and his staff (because governing is not the result of one man's effort) never loses sight of the larger picture. He has proven himself brilliant at perceiving the nuances of complex issues, and understanding that nothing is black and white, red or blue, or even gray or purple. As Thomas Friedman succinctly said, "I'm not a partisan. I'm not at war with Republicans or liberal Democrats. Most people are like that. They're not hyper-partisan--they just want you to come up with the right answer."* And the right answers are investing in the long-term, never compromising the future of our country for short-term relief, and holding onto integrity despite and in spite of 'the way things are done' in Washington.
One imperative issue that cannot slip off Obama's administration's radar: EDUCATION.
*From The New Yorker, "The Bright Side" by Ian Parker (November 10, 2008)
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Elated
I'm still on a high from last night and feeling, well, hope. The word is tiring, but the feeling is not. I can't seem to tire of the images, of people all over the world celebrating in the streets, in bars, in living rooms, of the President-elect's creased face, and the image of tears streaming from Jesse Jackson's eyes. It is incredible to see this overwhelming amount of global excitement.
Last night felt like New Year's Eve. There was an unspoken countdown (or countup in this case) with bated breath until the news was announced. Breaking News: Obama wins election. Last night was a new beginning, a night to make vows, and to make resolutions that you hope you will keep and eventually change for the better.
Hope and change. Hope and change. Hope and change. These are the words that have defined our nation and will define the global outlook of 2009.
I didn't see pure joy on one notable face. Barack Obama's gaze into the camera was intent, his smiles were brief, and you had to look at his wife and children to know that he was happy. Obama's win was not without tragic losses and absences: his campaign director in Nevada Terence Tolbert, his father, his mother, and most recently, his grandmother. But most vivid in his gaze was his intensity and his anxiety. He was not celebrating the night, but anticipating the challenges. His shell was there, an Obama cutout, while his mind and heart were at the White House.
This is the closest to fiction and fantasy our political reality has ever been. This is The West Wing, and I just hope that President Obama can be as bold and courageous as the fictional President Bartlet in Let Bartlet Be Bartlet. America has needed Barack Obama, not a superhero, but a man full of integrity who is a good father, husband, and leader. Someone who is unafraid of doing the right thing. I hope Aaron Sorkin's fantasy so vividly imagined becomes our reality in 2009.
On a completely separate, but related note (Obama's inheritance), this is the saddest and most creative perspective on the crisis on Wall Street.
Cartoon by Tom Toles from The Washington Post.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Feeling re-energized
This night, of all nights, seems most appropriate to revisit my old blog and put thoughts to the proverbial paper. This night, this historic night, is an occasion for ceremonious, celebratory words.
And yet, the words won't come, and I'm left feeling a little speechless. I wish the political pundits and the networks would feel the same, and join me in a moment of silence. I wish we could pause and observe this incredible moment, of 200+ years of history in the United States, the struggles, the Civil War, the Civil Rights, the immigrants, the labor movements, the soldiers, the dead, the alive, the old, and the young. Stop all the cameras, stop the inaudible interviews, stop the screaming and champagne drinking. Feel this moment of emotions that is overwhelming the nation.
Congratulations to our next President. President Barack Hussein Obama.
"Everything really is possible in America." -- Thomas L. Friedman
God Bless America.
And yet, the words won't come, and I'm left feeling a little speechless. I wish the political pundits and the networks would feel the same, and join me in a moment of silence. I wish we could pause and observe this incredible moment, of 200+ years of history in the United States, the struggles, the Civil War, the Civil Rights, the immigrants, the labor movements, the soldiers, the dead, the alive, the old, and the young. Stop all the cameras, stop the inaudible interviews, stop the screaming and champagne drinking. Feel this moment of emotions that is overwhelming the nation.
Congratulations to our next President. President Barack Hussein Obama.
"Everything really is possible in America." -- Thomas L. Friedman
God Bless America.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part IX: Fetishes
April 15, 2006 11:02 PM
I've lived in Manhattan for the last few years, and I've been spoiled by Giuliani's legacy. Nearly every neighborhood in Manhattan has been gentrified within an inch of its life. Streets are cleaned, the homeless have become less visible, there's no graffiti on the subway trains. There are many nights I opt out of a cab ride and walk home alone, feeling perfectly safe. I assumed the crazies had moved out of Manhattan; they now commute on the Path or MetroNorth.
But I hear of more than a few murders on the local news, of children left alone in the house unsupervised, of young women abducted from local bars. But it all seemed pretty removed from me until I had my own "New York of the 70s" encounter.
I ordered some food from an Italian joint called La Casalinga. I buzzed up the delivery guy to my door. After he handed me the food, I gave him a few bills and waited for the change. As he handed me the change, he looks me up and down.
(As an aside, I'll give a physical description of this guy in case anyone else runs into him. He has dark skin, a scruffy, unshaven face, dark brown hair that's parted in the middle and comes down past his ears on each side. His hair is curly and greasy with gel. He looks as he would in his own mugshot. He's about 5'10", 5'11".)
So he looks me up and down and asks, "Are you a dancer or something?" (He has a Hispanic accent, less "street" and more like "recent immigrant".)
"No, no I'm not," I reply.
"Oh because you have the legs and the feet of dancer." (I was barefoot and wearing cropped sweats.)
Ok... I was getting slightly uncomfortable, but I was flattered and figured it was going to end with the compliment. But no. The guy bends down, and runs one hand over my left foot. I freak out a little, but I try to keep my cool, hoping he would leave. Then:
"Yes, looks just like a dancer's," he says to me.
I back up from the door and start closing it.
"Thanks, thank you."
"You know reflexology? You Chinese," he asks, trying to re-engage me.
"No, no. Korean. Ok, thanks," I said, dismissing him.
"Reflexology," he responds as though he doesn't hear me, "it's a type of Chinese massage."
This guy gets down on ONE KNEE, runs his hand over my left foot, then my right. He fingers a big toe before I take another step back and thank him once more, more insistently. He's still down on one knee, and it becomes the longest few seconds of my life.
"Reflexology is like... and you push... pressure points..."
I'm not really listening to him at this point because to my horror, he has picked up my foot by the heel. He starts to massage the ball of my foot, caressing it a little. I pull my foot back.
"No thank you. That's alright. Ok, no thanks." I don't know what to say; I'm blubbering ineffectual protests against this Latino delivery guy with a foot fetish. I decided to remain polite because who knows what will happen if I piss him off?
I give my foot another firm tug, and before he lets go, he lifts my foot a little further, bends his head over it, and KISSES the top of my foot.
I jerk my foot away this time, remain polite, thank him, and close the door as quickly as I can push it without slamming it in his face. I hear the elevator take him away, and that's when I breathe out.
There's a particular feeling associated with an unwanted, unsolicited touch. It's a sort of tingling feeling right in the touched spot. It crawls up your body, the way disgust only can, and makes you want to take a shower. The tingling turns into a throbbing sensation like a burn without the pain. And it's one of those physical reactions you'll remember forever.
I understand, on a microscopic level, how women might feel when sexually assaulted or abused. A woman is trapped, usually in terror, then in anger. Even in her righteous fury, she hesitates to report anything because what if her attacker knows her address? What if he is the vengeful type? What if she's followed? It is frightening to think of the possibilities.
I've lived in Manhattan for the last few years, and I've been spoiled by Giuliani's legacy. Nearly every neighborhood in Manhattan has been gentrified within an inch of its life. Streets are cleaned, the homeless have become less visible, there's no graffiti on the subway trains. There are many nights I opt out of a cab ride and walk home alone, feeling perfectly safe. I assumed the crazies had moved out of Manhattan; they now commute on the Path or MetroNorth.
But I hear of more than a few murders on the local news, of children left alone in the house unsupervised, of young women abducted from local bars. But it all seemed pretty removed from me until I had my own "New York of the 70s" encounter.
I ordered some food from an Italian joint called La Casalinga. I buzzed up the delivery guy to my door. After he handed me the food, I gave him a few bills and waited for the change. As he handed me the change, he looks me up and down.
(As an aside, I'll give a physical description of this guy in case anyone else runs into him. He has dark skin, a scruffy, unshaven face, dark brown hair that's parted in the middle and comes down past his ears on each side. His hair is curly and greasy with gel. He looks as he would in his own mugshot. He's about 5'10", 5'11".)
So he looks me up and down and asks, "Are you a dancer or something?" (He has a Hispanic accent, less "street" and more like "recent immigrant".)
"No, no I'm not," I reply.
"Oh because you have the legs and the feet of dancer." (I was barefoot and wearing cropped sweats.)
Ok... I was getting slightly uncomfortable, but I was flattered and figured it was going to end with the compliment. But no. The guy bends down, and runs one hand over my left foot. I freak out a little, but I try to keep my cool, hoping he would leave. Then:
"Yes, looks just like a dancer's," he says to me.
I back up from the door and start closing it.
"Thanks, thank you."
"You know reflexology? You Chinese," he asks, trying to re-engage me.
"No, no. Korean. Ok, thanks," I said, dismissing him.
"Reflexology," he responds as though he doesn't hear me, "it's a type of Chinese massage."
This guy gets down on ONE KNEE, runs his hand over my left foot, then my right. He fingers a big toe before I take another step back and thank him once more, more insistently. He's still down on one knee, and it becomes the longest few seconds of my life.
"Reflexology is like... and you push... pressure points..."
I'm not really listening to him at this point because to my horror, he has picked up my foot by the heel. He starts to massage the ball of my foot, caressing it a little. I pull my foot back.
"No thank you. That's alright. Ok, no thanks." I don't know what to say; I'm blubbering ineffectual protests against this Latino delivery guy with a foot fetish. I decided to remain polite because who knows what will happen if I piss him off?
I give my foot another firm tug, and before he lets go, he lifts my foot a little further, bends his head over it, and KISSES the top of my foot.
I jerk my foot away this time, remain polite, thank him, and close the door as quickly as I can push it without slamming it in his face. I hear the elevator take him away, and that's when I breathe out.
There's a particular feeling associated with an unwanted, unsolicited touch. It's a sort of tingling feeling right in the touched spot. It crawls up your body, the way disgust only can, and makes you want to take a shower. The tingling turns into a throbbing sensation like a burn without the pain. And it's one of those physical reactions you'll remember forever.
I understand, on a microscopic level, how women might feel when sexually assaulted or abused. A woman is trapped, usually in terror, then in anger. Even in her righteous fury, she hesitates to report anything because what if her attacker knows her address? What if he is the vengeful type? What if she's followed? It is frightening to think of the possibilities.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VIII: Crying and Other Games
December 4, 2005 6:19 PM
I think one of the most certifiably insane things I do is cry. I have the ability (or the insanity) to cry at the most inane things like The Cosby Show, any number of romantic comedies, and commercials for diamond rings and Cheerios. But the inexplicable way I get emotional about 5 minutes of Scrubs and 30 seconds of a DeBeers Diamonds commercial is not just proof of the power of advertising. (Although I am a sucker for a great commercial or a well-designed product.) I'm completely drawn to the way television easily packages a torrent of complicated and interconnected emotions and presents it in a well-wrapped 30 second, 30 minute or an hour long segment that hits you right in the guts.
As ridiculous as it sounds, when I watch an episode of Scrubs, I can't help but wish that life would come in packaged 30 minute segments. Trials and tribulations would last only an alotted amount of time at the end of which would result in a tightly and elegantly tied bow of an epiphany. Everything would make sense. Then after your show would come an episode of Law & Order to put your life in perspective. But there isn't enough capital, sponsors, or products in the world that could ever make that fly. Because no one is really interested in the insecurities and fears that drives the person sitting across from you on your way to work on the 6 train, coupled with the fact that life doesn't come in 30 minute segments.
So everyone just desperately tries to hold onto everything they're afraid of because once that escapes, there'll be chaos. But once in a while one will react to his fears and hope that a commercial break will distract their friends and family from seeing something that had been buried a long time ago. It's difficult to fight your insecurities and act appropriately on a daily basis, but you do it to keep the peace. In the midst of protecting yourself and your privacy, it's the things that you say or don't say that can mess up the delicate balance you already have.
And perhaps Scrubs is not the emotional tour de force of Titanic or a Barbara Streisand song, but it certainly does it for me. It's an excuse for me to cry about the things I want to cry about in life. Does that make me a wuss? I said wuss.
I think one of the most certifiably insane things I do is cry. I have the ability (or the insanity) to cry at the most inane things like The Cosby Show, any number of romantic comedies, and commercials for diamond rings and Cheerios. But the inexplicable way I get emotional about 5 minutes of Scrubs and 30 seconds of a DeBeers Diamonds commercial is not just proof of the power of advertising. (Although I am a sucker for a great commercial or a well-designed product.) I'm completely drawn to the way television easily packages a torrent of complicated and interconnected emotions and presents it in a well-wrapped 30 second, 30 minute or an hour long segment that hits you right in the guts.
As ridiculous as it sounds, when I watch an episode of Scrubs, I can't help but wish that life would come in packaged 30 minute segments. Trials and tribulations would last only an alotted amount of time at the end of which would result in a tightly and elegantly tied bow of an epiphany. Everything would make sense. Then after your show would come an episode of Law & Order to put your life in perspective. But there isn't enough capital, sponsors, or products in the world that could ever make that fly. Because no one is really interested in the insecurities and fears that drives the person sitting across from you on your way to work on the 6 train, coupled with the fact that life doesn't come in 30 minute segments.
So everyone just desperately tries to hold onto everything they're afraid of because once that escapes, there'll be chaos. But once in a while one will react to his fears and hope that a commercial break will distract their friends and family from seeing something that had been buried a long time ago. It's difficult to fight your insecurities and act appropriately on a daily basis, but you do it to keep the peace. In the midst of protecting yourself and your privacy, it's the things that you say or don't say that can mess up the delicate balance you already have.
And perhaps Scrubs is not the emotional tour de force of Titanic or a Barbara Streisand song, but it certainly does it for me. It's an excuse for me to cry about the things I want to cry about in life. Does that make me a wuss? I said wuss.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VII: Hitler on Halloween
October 31, 2005 12:23 AM
Halloween, Candy, & Condoms
Not a big fan of Halloween, but I was mildly turned on by the Boy's rendition of Clark Kent in a state of undress, or more specifically, in a state of ripping off his button-down to reveal a large yellow "S" rippling over his pectoral muscles and... uh, I got a little carried away there.
The only other thing I love about Halloween is those bags of mini Snickers bars. I feel guilt-free eating those bite-sized morsels although in reality I end up eating the equivalent of 6 regular sized bars. But I can get those bags year round which brings me to my original opinion of Halloween: general disdain. Halloween is just a poor excuse for shenanigans and hooliganism. Case in point: on the local news tonight was a story about a 15 year old boy shooting a 31 year old man in the Bronx (and 3 times in the arm and the ass) during a chase that ensued when the boy wouldn’t stop throwing eggs at the man’s purple Dodge minivan. The boy said the egging was a Halloween prank.
That’s the thing about New York: I feel like something completely senseless is always happening around me, at any given moment. I feel like I’m surrounded by characters of a play who represent detailed and specific stereotypes and are capable of, well, craziness. I think I was about to witness one of those instances this evening. As I walked into a corner store to buy some Vitamin Water, three guys walked in right behind me. They all looked conspicuously fashion-challenged in the trendy East Village, and they looked as though they had just busted out of jail. They strutted in like a modern trio of wise men looking for gifts, certainly not gifts for Jesus. The first guy, gruff and unshaven wearing a brown leather jacket and thick black boots, bought a coffee and a blue box of Trojans. I didn’t observe the kind. The second guy picked up a People magazine and folded it under his arm with the cover facing in. The third guy, in a New York Giants Starter jacket, grabbed a box of powdered Entenmann’s doughnuts. I didn’t know what the hell they were going to do with those three items because they all left together, but it looked like they were going to share a good time. Happy Halloween, boys.
By the way, there seems to be quite a bit of product placement going on in my blog. I would like to note that I do not support any of the aforementioned products in any way. But vitamin water is a delicious refreshing drink that can quench any thirst.
October 31, 2005 11:52 PM
Hitler on Modern Art
In a public speech inaugurating the "Great Exhibition of German Art, 1937" in Munich, Adolf Hitler finally actualizes his revenge on his former third grade art class peers for their relentless ridicule of his feeble attempts at drawing the human form.
I think one can get a fuller picture in the biographical full-length animated film by Tim Burton, currently in production.
In the speech, Hitler, clearly an expert on modern art, decided to air his opinion on the entire movement. Please, do not be intimidated by a nearly palpable sense of deep intellect, for Hitler is the epitome of all that is art and culture. Do not be afraid:
“I have observed among the pictures submitted here, quite a few paintings which make one actually come to the conclusion that the eye shows things differently to certain human beings than the way they really are, that is, that there really are men who see the present population of our nation only as rotten cretins; who, on principle, see meadows blue, skies green, clouds sulphur yellow, and so on, or, as they say, experience them as such… in the name of the German people, I want to forbid these pitiful misfortunates who quite obviously suffer from an eye disease, to try vehemently to foist these products of their misinterpretation upon the age we live in, or even to wish to present them as ‘Art’.”
The sage continued:
“No, here there are only two possibilities: Either these so-called ‘artists’ really see things this way and therefore believe in what they depict; then we would have to examine their eyesight-deformation to see if it is the product of a mechanical failure or of inheritance. In the first case, these unfortunates can only be pitied; in the second case, they would be the object of great interest to the Ministry of Interior of the Reich which would then have to take up the question of whether further inheritance of such gruesome malfunctioning of the eyes cannot at least be checked.”
Modern art by A. Hitler. Oh no, he never used air-time to share his lifelong resentment with the entire German nation.
Halloween, Candy, & Condoms
Not a big fan of Halloween, but I was mildly turned on by the Boy's rendition of Clark Kent in a state of undress, or more specifically, in a state of ripping off his button-down to reveal a large yellow "S" rippling over his pectoral muscles and... uh, I got a little carried away there.
The only other thing I love about Halloween is those bags of mini Snickers bars. I feel guilt-free eating those bite-sized morsels although in reality I end up eating the equivalent of 6 regular sized bars. But I can get those bags year round which brings me to my original opinion of Halloween: general disdain. Halloween is just a poor excuse for shenanigans and hooliganism. Case in point: on the local news tonight was a story about a 15 year old boy shooting a 31 year old man in the Bronx (and 3 times in the arm and the ass) during a chase that ensued when the boy wouldn’t stop throwing eggs at the man’s purple Dodge minivan. The boy said the egging was a Halloween prank.
That’s the thing about New York: I feel like something completely senseless is always happening around me, at any given moment. I feel like I’m surrounded by characters of a play who represent detailed and specific stereotypes and are capable of, well, craziness. I think I was about to witness one of those instances this evening. As I walked into a corner store to buy some Vitamin Water, three guys walked in right behind me. They all looked conspicuously fashion-challenged in the trendy East Village, and they looked as though they had just busted out of jail. They strutted in like a modern trio of wise men looking for gifts, certainly not gifts for Jesus. The first guy, gruff and unshaven wearing a brown leather jacket and thick black boots, bought a coffee and a blue box of Trojans. I didn’t observe the kind. The second guy picked up a People magazine and folded it under his arm with the cover facing in. The third guy, in a New York Giants Starter jacket, grabbed a box of powdered Entenmann’s doughnuts. I didn’t know what the hell they were going to do with those three items because they all left together, but it looked like they were going to share a good time. Happy Halloween, boys.
By the way, there seems to be quite a bit of product placement going on in my blog. I would like to note that I do not support any of the aforementioned products in any way. But vitamin water is a delicious refreshing drink that can quench any thirst.
October 31, 2005 11:52 PM
Hitler on Modern Art
In a public speech inaugurating the "Great Exhibition of German Art, 1937" in Munich, Adolf Hitler finally actualizes his revenge on his former third grade art class peers for their relentless ridicule of his feeble attempts at drawing the human form.
I think one can get a fuller picture in the biographical full-length animated film by Tim Burton, currently in production.
In the speech, Hitler, clearly an expert on modern art, decided to air his opinion on the entire movement. Please, do not be intimidated by a nearly palpable sense of deep intellect, for Hitler is the epitome of all that is art and culture. Do not be afraid:
“I have observed among the pictures submitted here, quite a few paintings which make one actually come to the conclusion that the eye shows things differently to certain human beings than the way they really are, that is, that there really are men who see the present population of our nation only as rotten cretins; who, on principle, see meadows blue, skies green, clouds sulphur yellow, and so on, or, as they say, experience them as such… in the name of the German people, I want to forbid these pitiful misfortunates who quite obviously suffer from an eye disease, to try vehemently to foist these products of their misinterpretation upon the age we live in, or even to wish to present them as ‘Art’.”
The sage continued:
“No, here there are only two possibilities: Either these so-called ‘artists’ really see things this way and therefore believe in what they depict; then we would have to examine their eyesight-deformation to see if it is the product of a mechanical failure or of inheritance. In the first case, these unfortunates can only be pitied; in the second case, they would be the object of great interest to the Ministry of Interior of the Reich which would then have to take up the question of whether further inheritance of such gruesome malfunctioning of the eyes cannot at least be checked.”
Modern art by A. Hitler. Oh no, he never used air-time to share his lifelong resentment with the entire German nation.
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