After Kip's birthday two weeks ago, a bunch of us ended up at Odessa, eating potato pancakes, kielbasa, and peirogis, and drinking beer. There were too many of us to sit at a single table, so we split into two, our table talking mostly about theater--shows we did and didn't like, the great performances of 2010, Patti vs. Bernadette. I think we bored Joe. Sorry, Joe. I thought to myself: Please let it be like this for the rest of my life. I really did think that.
It felt like old times. When I first moved to New York, my roommates and I always ended up at Odessa, or Veselka, or Kate's Joint, after having seen something (good or great or bad) at Theater for the New City, or PS122, or The Ontological-Hysteric. Or somewhere else. Then, the long--it seemed at the time--ride home on the F Train to Astoria. We felt like part of the culture. We were part of the culture.
I admit, I'm getting sentimental. Later the same week, I watched the Martin Scorsese documentary "Public Speaking," which is about Fran Lebowitz. Fran talked (among other brilliant things) about the richness of audiences back in the day--about how they demanded the best, every single time, because they had seen everything. In Patti Smith's "Just Kids," which I was also reading at the time, she writes about the opportunities artists had in the 60s and 70s. Opportunities that could never be now.
My tendency is to think that all this nostalgia is just, well, that. But then, we went to see the revival of "Angels in America," and during the intermissions of "Perestroika," the couple sitting next to us talked on and on about how the liked or didn't like the various choices that the characters were making. He said "I don't know any of these performers." His date (sister? friend? girlfriend?) said: "I hate plays like this where everyone is just talking." I felt a bit deflated.
It's a good thing that the play is a masterpiece. It lifted me back up. The Signature Theater's production is terribly, terribly good--even if one wonder's if Zoe Kazan's earthy strength is right for Harper, and why Christian Borle seemed to be playing everything so weird to me, or if, as my agent wrote, "why Joe seemed to be given the most unhappy ending. Well...besides Roy." Zachary Quinto's performance as Louis is nuanced and obvious at the same time--his technical skills are sometimes on the outside, and I liked that about it. The thing is, though, all these things make the play, the experience of being in the theater with a piece as fucking brilliant and difficult and striving as Kushner's, and actors as sharp and skillful as this ensemble, more exciting. It was really, truly fantastic.
The rest of this story is about me noting how everything seems to be talking to itself. Novelists recognize this as a message from the universe that it's time to get serious. Or, at least, I do. This kind of doubling back, these overlapping strains of thought are your subconscious trying to tell you something about what you're thinking about. Your job is to translate that into the work. Not that it's easy.
The second novel has been such a struggle. Huge roller coaster emotions, false-starts, insecurities. It must be going just like the first one went, but I don't remember making the first one that much. Really. It just kind of came out of me, boom, like a sad, confused hustler bursting out of a party cake the shape of a rain-soaked New York City. (Lol?) And for the last three years before it was published, there was 250 pages of it--lots of clay, as it were. When I sat down to work with it, there was lots to work with. This new thing is still a mess, stretched out in too many directions, too many characters that don't know what their stories are. Sometimes I don't know how I'm going to do it. No, really. I feel like I might explode. I feel like I'm going crazy.
I try to feel buoyed up by the life around me. But we're so close to the edge of crazy, we're right on the other side of this thin membrane. I feel totally pressed against it sometimes. It's a good thing there are so many things to keep us, the collective us, together. Friends who, half-drunk, say things like "Would Arthur Laurents just go ahead and die already?" And Kip. And potato pancakes and vegan turkey sandwiches at Kate's. And the F-Train. And Fran Lebowitz and Tony Kushner. And Patti Smith. And Patti vs. Bernadette.
(Who are we kidding? Bernadette, all the way.)
Showing posts with label horrible. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horrible. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Monday, July 12, 2010
A Moment of Stuckness
For dinner tonight I made pesto from Greenmarket basil, as well as some basil that I picked from our container garden on the back porch. I kept dumping things into the food processor that I was trying to get rid of. First, it was a quarter cup of cashews, to go with the normal basil, lemon juice, and walnuts since I didn't have pine nuts. Then it was a cup or so of steamed broccoli, which was leftover from last night's dinner, then it was some frozen peas that I felt like needed to go somewhere (read: my belly.) It was a diehard Italian's nightmare, certainly.
Now Kip is upstairs watching The Golden Girls on WE, and I'm downstairs typing this and spending time with The Bean, who, as you might have previously read, isn't ready to join the other two cats in co-habitation just yet. She seems perfectly happy down here, though she does sound what we call the "Love Alarm," which is a kind of happy-sounding, somewhat-impatient sounding series of chirps and meows, which we can hear all the way through the apartment. The other day, we decided to let the three of them re-meet each other, and expecting the worst, were surprised when she hissed dramatically, and the boys were scared shitless and went running back upstairs to their part of the apartment. You just never know.
The days and nights seem slower since we moved in together, somehow. This is a good thing, not a complaint. I just want to get back into the motion of writing, which has eluded me for the last several months. First I was packing and sorting and throwing away, then I was unpacking and re-sorting and still throwing away, and now I am basically settled, but can't seem to find the steam again. The new novel is in that early stage of becoming material, but still too early to be anything substantial. In other words, I can see all the flaws, but can't do anything about them yet because I'm still working through it. Rather, the book it still deciding what it is. This is kind of a nightmare place for me to be. I feel both trapped by it, and far away from it. I try to start new sections, pick up at a new place each time, but that has just left me feeling even more fractured and unhappy with it. This is always the case at some point. Just because it's a familiar feeling doesn't mean it's not unpleasant. Ugh.
Now Kip is upstairs watching The Golden Girls on WE, and I'm downstairs typing this and spending time with The Bean, who, as you might have previously read, isn't ready to join the other two cats in co-habitation just yet. She seems perfectly happy down here, though she does sound what we call the "Love Alarm," which is a kind of happy-sounding, somewhat-impatient sounding series of chirps and meows, which we can hear all the way through the apartment. The other day, we decided to let the three of them re-meet each other, and expecting the worst, were surprised when she hissed dramatically, and the boys were scared shitless and went running back upstairs to their part of the apartment. You just never know.
The days and nights seem slower since we moved in together, somehow. This is a good thing, not a complaint. I just want to get back into the motion of writing, which has eluded me for the last several months. First I was packing and sorting and throwing away, then I was unpacking and re-sorting and still throwing away, and now I am basically settled, but can't seem to find the steam again. The new novel is in that early stage of becoming material, but still too early to be anything substantial. In other words, I can see all the flaws, but can't do anything about them yet because I'm still working through it. Rather, the book it still deciding what it is. This is kind of a nightmare place for me to be. I feel both trapped by it, and far away from it. I try to start new sections, pick up at a new place each time, but that has just left me feeling even more fractured and unhappy with it. This is always the case at some point. Just because it's a familiar feeling doesn't mean it's not unpleasant. Ugh.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Brooklyn !!
Kip's cats were inseparable, like a single animal with one set of thoughts--twin boys, mostly Russian Blue, skittish but loving and lively. They slept together, ate together, smothered us with their furry nuzzles in the bed together. Then we woke up one morning two months ago to find Joel walking funny. Actually, the way he was limping his hind leg made me feel as if something was seriously wrong--my instinct said this can not wait until later, he needs to go to the doctor right now. I wondered if he'd broken his foot in the night, or caught a toe somewhere and had to pull himself free. The vet said that it was bone cancer, and his legs were eaten up with it. We aren't the kind of people to let things drag on and on, and so Joel never came home. Since then, Zane has been a new, refreshed kind of cat--demanding more and more attention in the cutest, most delicious of ways, and wanting nothing more than to be by our sides at every moment. Yesterday, when I moved my two cats from Astoria to our new apartment in Ditmas Park, I wondered how the meeting would go.
When Zane saw Bad Thing (yes, that's his name) for the first time, electricity fired through the air and Zane made the most incredible, completely recognizable--which is to say, human--movements. It was so clear. He thought it was Joel, then upon realizing that it wasn't, he blinked, set down his head, and let out a sad, guttural wail. I'll never forget it. This first, tiny interaction was enough to send me into a spiral of sadness and longing, which I'm sure was nothing like the confused tunnel of memories that Zane was going through. We recognize that cats are "like" us a little bit, but we too often see ourselves as different creatures. What a beautiful, extraordinary, unexpectedly emotional moment.
Since then, they have growled, hissed and postured, in every room of the new house, trying to figure out who belongs where--maybe not understanding that as of yesterday they both belong everywhere. The most coveted area is, of course, the bed, where both of the humans are laying flat for long periods of time, and are most likely to hug and squeeze and love them. We'll see how that works out.
The move has been a lovely one, despite the days of stress and anxiety and uncertainty, and I am sure that when the boxes are all unpacked and the house starts to look like somewhere people could actually live, we'll settle in nicely. People keep asking if the move "went well." It did, despite my movers showing up 2 hours late. Although the hardest part is the part we're doing now--the deciding not only where to put everything, but more importantly, how you want to move through your space. How do you want to sit in your new office? Where should each "category" of kitchen item live? What art do you want to look at when you sit in this chair, or that chair? How do you work the dishwasher, and the new-fangled stove that preheats to 400 degrees in 6 minutes, no really.
Bean, my more adorable and more, um, Rubenesque cat, has spent the last 48 hours under the guest bedroom in the basement. She has come out once to pee--that I know of, and a few times I can coax her out for a few minutes of loving and a little sip of water. The last time I moved--9 years ago, when she was 4 years old--she stayed wrapped up inside an overcoat on a chair for three days. I want my happy little girl back.
I'm thrilled, don't get me wrong. The house is so beautiful, and so full of promise and opportunity, not to mention the most luxurious washer/dryer and central air that a person could desire. Oh yeah, and we have a backyard--it's a wreck right now, but soon (soonish?) we'll have a deck and some plants and a little garden party.
But...promise me that we made the right choice. Promise me that the bumps in the road ahead will be remembered as tiny victories over the things we used to think were problems, but really weren't. Promise me that soon we'll all end up, the five of us, napping and talking and loving in the bed with no growling or hissing (or snoring from the boyfriend). Promise me that everything will be alright.
When Zane saw Bad Thing (yes, that's his name) for the first time, electricity fired through the air and Zane made the most incredible, completely recognizable--which is to say, human--movements. It was so clear. He thought it was Joel, then upon realizing that it wasn't, he blinked, set down his head, and let out a sad, guttural wail. I'll never forget it. This first, tiny interaction was enough to send me into a spiral of sadness and longing, which I'm sure was nothing like the confused tunnel of memories that Zane was going through. We recognize that cats are "like" us a little bit, but we too often see ourselves as different creatures. What a beautiful, extraordinary, unexpectedly emotional moment.
Since then, they have growled, hissed and postured, in every room of the new house, trying to figure out who belongs where--maybe not understanding that as of yesterday they both belong everywhere. The most coveted area is, of course, the bed, where both of the humans are laying flat for long periods of time, and are most likely to hug and squeeze and love them. We'll see how that works out.
The move has been a lovely one, despite the days of stress and anxiety and uncertainty, and I am sure that when the boxes are all unpacked and the house starts to look like somewhere people could actually live, we'll settle in nicely. People keep asking if the move "went well." It did, despite my movers showing up 2 hours late. Although the hardest part is the part we're doing now--the deciding not only where to put everything, but more importantly, how you want to move through your space. How do you want to sit in your new office? Where should each "category" of kitchen item live? What art do you want to look at when you sit in this chair, or that chair? How do you work the dishwasher, and the new-fangled stove that preheats to 400 degrees in 6 minutes, no really.
Bean, my more adorable and more, um, Rubenesque cat, has spent the last 48 hours under the guest bedroom in the basement. She has come out once to pee--that I know of, and a few times I can coax her out for a few minutes of loving and a little sip of water. The last time I moved--9 years ago, when she was 4 years old--she stayed wrapped up inside an overcoat on a chair for three days. I want my happy little girl back.
I'm thrilled, don't get me wrong. The house is so beautiful, and so full of promise and opportunity, not to mention the most luxurious washer/dryer and central air that a person could desire. Oh yeah, and we have a backyard--it's a wreck right now, but soon (soonish?) we'll have a deck and some plants and a little garden party.
But...promise me that we made the right choice. Promise me that the bumps in the road ahead will be remembered as tiny victories over the things we used to think were problems, but really weren't. Promise me that soon we'll all end up, the five of us, napping and talking and loving in the bed with no growling or hissing (or snoring from the boyfriend). Promise me that everything will be alright.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
News of the Week
--Sometimes I find myself standing in my living room, looking over the shelves, reaching for a book I've read ten times, twenty times. This week, I pulled down Oyster by Janette Turner Hospital, which I first heard about from a Booksense76 newsletter--do those still exist? I wrote this post a while back about her, which popped into my brain when I decided that I had already said all the things I was about to say again. One of the things I wrote then was that her work is: "a response, a reaction, a dialogue with the entire scope of art and artforms: music, opera, poetry, painting." This is true, even more than I remember it. Oyster is complicated, difficult, incredibly rich with language and room and intellect. And I love it.
--I hate teenagers on the bus. I realize that the only time they have to be themselves is the short, unsupervised hour between when school ends and when they arrive at home. So, in a way, the bus is the pinnacle of their real experience with each other. I'm just depressed that the way they talk to each other is so cruel, so destructive. (I do not remember my teenage years being like this. Were they? Was it because I had a group of weirdo friends who made theater together and drank wine at the teacher's house?) Everything to them is about saving face, about being in the middle, not too much of anything. They don't even listen to each other, they just talk, make grand statements about the lesserness of each other. It's disguised by the talk of phones and shoes and what she or he said, and how they said it. Am I a grumpy old person cursing the kids for stepping on the lawn? All of it makes me feel very alone. And I hate it.
--Charles Busch and Julie Halston, and a victorious cavalcade of other fantastically talented people are performing in "The Divine Sister," down at Theater for the New City. They say it's totally sold out, but you can get on the wait list. Do try. It's extraordinary. I think what I find most refreshing about Charles's work is that every one of his plays, when you take away everything, all the references and laughs and over-the-top everything, his work is about finding who you are, and loving who you are, and making the past right, and owning yourself in whatever way you have to. It's theater like nobody else is doing right now, or has ever maybe, and I don't know how the walls of that little theater can ever contain all the joy that they create together. And I love it.
--I hate teenagers on the bus. I realize that the only time they have to be themselves is the short, unsupervised hour between when school ends and when they arrive at home. So, in a way, the bus is the pinnacle of their real experience with each other. I'm just depressed that the way they talk to each other is so cruel, so destructive. (I do not remember my teenage years being like this. Were they? Was it because I had a group of weirdo friends who made theater together and drank wine at the teacher's house?) Everything to them is about saving face, about being in the middle, not too much of anything. They don't even listen to each other, they just talk, make grand statements about the lesserness of each other. It's disguised by the talk of phones and shoes and what she or he said, and how they said it. Am I a grumpy old person cursing the kids for stepping on the lawn? All of it makes me feel very alone. And I hate it.
--Charles Busch and Julie Halston, and a victorious cavalcade of other fantastically talented people are performing in "The Divine Sister," down at Theater for the New City. They say it's totally sold out, but you can get on the wait list. Do try. It's extraordinary. I think what I find most refreshing about Charles's work is that every one of his plays, when you take away everything, all the references and laughs and over-the-top everything, his work is about finding who you are, and loving who you are, and making the past right, and owning yourself in whatever way you have to. It's theater like nobody else is doing right now, or has ever maybe, and I don't know how the walls of that little theater can ever contain all the joy that they create together. And I love it.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
How Can One Sleep with So Many Feelings?
for Sean Quinn
Yesterday after midnight at the Polish bakery,
there was a long line of old women standing outside,
each bent, with thick-soled shoes and
hands hidden in pockets,
equal parts patience and urgency,
with probably simple but particular needs.
Inside, the women waved bills and fingers,
stretching themselves over the counter,
paper wrapped pastries inside paper bags,
inside plastic bags.
I had the feeling you have when you realize
that a lot of people know something
that you don't.
How can one sleep with so many feelings?
You lay down and close your eyes,
and the sleep washes over the feelings,
washing them out to sea, where they float,
like note-filled bottles and other man-made trinkets,
for years, for lifetimes, for generations,
or until the next day's tide,
returned to you by the moon,
or a song from your days in Hoboken,
or the name of your favorite lover,
or the memory of the lover that left you, who,
restless, asked the same question to himself
and heard no sensible answer.
Yesterday after midnight at the Polish bakery,
there was a long line of old women standing outside,
each bent, with thick-soled shoes and
hands hidden in pockets,
equal parts patience and urgency,
with probably simple but particular needs.
Inside, the women waved bills and fingers,
stretching themselves over the counter,
paper wrapped pastries inside paper bags,
inside plastic bags.
I had the feeling you have when you realize
that a lot of people know something
that you don't.
How can one sleep with so many feelings?
You lay down and close your eyes,
and the sleep washes over the feelings,
washing them out to sea, where they float,
like note-filled bottles and other man-made trinkets,
for years, for lifetimes, for generations,
or until the next day's tide,
returned to you by the moon,
or a song from your days in Hoboken,
or the name of your favorite lover,
or the memory of the lover that left you, who,
restless, asked the same question to himself
and heard no sensible answer.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Some Assholes of Late
1) The Supreme Court of the United States
Okay, only five of them were assholes, but it was enough for the outcome of Citizens United v. the Federal Election Commission to end in granting corporations the "right" to spend unlimited amounts of cash on elections. Because if there's anything we need in this world, it's more corporate influence over what people see and think about--especially when those things we are supposed to think about are candidates who support or don't support the interests of those corporations.
2) Live Nation / Ticketmaster / Department of Justice
Last week, the Department of Justice decided, after about a year of investigation, that Ticketmaster and Live Nation, two enormous, controlling, for-profit, monopolizing companies could merge into one company....as long as they divvied the pieces up in a way that made, well, some kind of sense to the DOJ -- including forcing Ticketmaster to license it's ticket-selling software to other outlets. (What other outlets, you are probably asking.) Live Nation had the balls to say this: "This is a good and exciting day for the music business, and we are close to finalizing the creation of a new company that will seek to transform the way artists distribute their content and fans can access that content." Call me crazy, but I can't see how any of this will mean anything other than more fees and even more limited access to the rather static number of tickets available to events.
3) James Cameron
When accepting the Golden Globe for best picture, James Cameron said: "....If they start the music, it's going to be an ugly scene. No, this is quick, uh, you know, I just wanna tell you kind of how I feel right now, this is such an exciting evening and just walking through here, walking in here with all you, you, great creative amazing people, I look around this room and I see the faces of the people that I respect, that I've admired for years, some of you I know and have worked with, many of you I'd love to have the opportunity to work with, and I just think, 'This is the best job in the world.' You know? It just really is. And I just want you to give it up for yourselves....You know, Avatar, I guess asks us to see--they're telling me to wrap it up, but they're afraid to start the music--Avatar asks us to see that everything is connected, all human beings to each other, and us to the earth, and you know, if you have to go four and a half light years to another, made-up planet to appreciate this miracle of a world we have right now, you know what, that's the wonder of cinema right there. That's the magic. Thank you." What a fucking douchebag. What's going to happen if they start playing the music, Jim? What other stupid threats can you lay out on the table? They want to play the music, but they are so afraid!
Okay, only five of them were assholes, but it was enough for the outcome of Citizens United v. the Federal Election Commission to end in granting corporations the "right" to spend unlimited amounts of cash on elections. Because if there's anything we need in this world, it's more corporate influence over what people see and think about--especially when those things we are supposed to think about are candidates who support or don't support the interests of those corporations.
2) Live Nation / Ticketmaster / Department of Justice
Last week, the Department of Justice decided, after about a year of investigation, that Ticketmaster and Live Nation, two enormous, controlling, for-profit, monopolizing companies could merge into one company....as long as they divvied the pieces up in a way that made, well, some kind of sense to the DOJ -- including forcing Ticketmaster to license it's ticket-selling software to other outlets. (What other outlets, you are probably asking.) Live Nation had the balls to say this: "This is a good and exciting day for the music business, and we are close to finalizing the creation of a new company that will seek to transform the way artists distribute their content and fans can access that content." Call me crazy, but I can't see how any of this will mean anything other than more fees and even more limited access to the rather static number of tickets available to events.
3) James Cameron
When accepting the Golden Globe for best picture, James Cameron said: "....If they start the music, it's going to be an ugly scene. No, this is quick, uh, you know, I just wanna tell you kind of how I feel right now, this is such an exciting evening and just walking through here, walking in here with all you, you, great creative amazing people, I look around this room and I see the faces of the people that I respect, that I've admired for years, some of you I know and have worked with, many of you I'd love to have the opportunity to work with, and I just think, 'This is the best job in the world.' You know? It just really is. And I just want you to give it up for yourselves....You know, Avatar, I guess asks us to see--they're telling me to wrap it up, but they're afraid to start the music--Avatar asks us to see that everything is connected, all human beings to each other, and us to the earth, and you know, if you have to go four and a half light years to another, made-up planet to appreciate this miracle of a world we have right now, you know what, that's the wonder of cinema right there. That's the magic. Thank you." What a fucking douchebag. What's going to happen if they start playing the music, Jim? What other stupid threats can you lay out on the table? They want to play the music, but they are so afraid!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Thursday, December 03, 2009
An Open Letter to New York State Senators Aubertine, Addabbo, Diaz, Huntley, Kruger, Monserrate, Onorato, and Sachowski
Dear State Senators,
The votes that each of you cast yesterday should fill you with shame. When you returned to your homes in the evening, to your spouses and children and beside tables, did you feel a sense of accomplishment? Did you think that you had honored your commitment to democracy and government? Or did you wake choking in the middle of the night, grasping desperately for a glass of water, your body caught in the twisted sheets, knowing that the choice you made was the resentful, hateful, bigoted choice of a coward?
I am afraid that you slept soundly. I am afraid that you think that this is just how some things go in Albany, that votes don't mean what they really mean. I am afraid that you cannot see what you have done. I am afraid that because of your ignorance you do not understand that your votes are not simply votes to deny the rights of thousands of loving, hopeful, trusting, giving, caring and tax-paying people--many of whom voted for you--the right to happiness, and equal protection. Your votes are expressions of pure, unequivocal hate. You have said: It's okay to hate gay people.
Do you understand that heterosexual marriages are actually made less sacred by the choices that you have made? Do you understand that if the love between two women who wish to marry is a threatening advance on the stability of your marriage, then your marriage has no stability at all?
Though you may not see it, this is not simply a vote against gay people who want to share a life together. This is a vote against every gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or questioning child that gets bullied, beaten, assaulted and abused--on the playground, in classrooms, and in the very communities that you represent. Your vote is a vote against their future.
Of all the reasons to have the institution of marriage open to every one of this country's citizens, perhaps the most important is this: So that our gay and lesbian children feel valid. So they can grow up to be productive, loving, active members of the American idea in action. Your vote has said to them, loud and clear, that your neighborhood and your government thinks that you are worthless. That worthlessness, which is the worthlessness that you have incited, encouraged and have now perpetuated, will cause some of those children to attempt suicide. Some of those who try to kill themselves will succeed. They will shoot themselves with guns, or hang themselves in closets, or slice open their fragile young wrists.
I hope that when this happens--and sadly, terribly, regretfully, it will happen--that you are visited by their ghosts in the night. I hope that the dark room you are sleeping in turns suddenly cold. I hope your body feels icy, frozen with the knowledge of what you've done. I hope that you wake shaking, and screaming in fear.
Sincerely,
Lee Houck
The votes that each of you cast yesterday should fill you with shame. When you returned to your homes in the evening, to your spouses and children and beside tables, did you feel a sense of accomplishment? Did you think that you had honored your commitment to democracy and government? Or did you wake choking in the middle of the night, grasping desperately for a glass of water, your body caught in the twisted sheets, knowing that the choice you made was the resentful, hateful, bigoted choice of a coward?
I am afraid that you slept soundly. I am afraid that you think that this is just how some things go in Albany, that votes don't mean what they really mean. I am afraid that you cannot see what you have done. I am afraid that because of your ignorance you do not understand that your votes are not simply votes to deny the rights of thousands of loving, hopeful, trusting, giving, caring and tax-paying people--many of whom voted for you--the right to happiness, and equal protection. Your votes are expressions of pure, unequivocal hate. You have said: It's okay to hate gay people.
Do you understand that heterosexual marriages are actually made less sacred by the choices that you have made? Do you understand that if the love between two women who wish to marry is a threatening advance on the stability of your marriage, then your marriage has no stability at all?
Though you may not see it, this is not simply a vote against gay people who want to share a life together. This is a vote against every gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or questioning child that gets bullied, beaten, assaulted and abused--on the playground, in classrooms, and in the very communities that you represent. Your vote is a vote against their future.
Of all the reasons to have the institution of marriage open to every one of this country's citizens, perhaps the most important is this: So that our gay and lesbian children feel valid. So they can grow up to be productive, loving, active members of the American idea in action. Your vote has said to them, loud and clear, that your neighborhood and your government thinks that you are worthless. That worthlessness, which is the worthlessness that you have incited, encouraged and have now perpetuated, will cause some of those children to attempt suicide. Some of those who try to kill themselves will succeed. They will shoot themselves with guns, or hang themselves in closets, or slice open their fragile young wrists.
I hope that when this happens--and sadly, terribly, regretfully, it will happen--that you are visited by their ghosts in the night. I hope that the dark room you are sleeping in turns suddenly cold. I hope your body feels icy, frozen with the knowledge of what you've done. I hope that you wake shaking, and screaming in fear.
Sincerely,
Lee Houck
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
What Reviewers Have to Say About the South Williamsburg Post Office
--"I just moved to the area and I ship hula hoops folded in half, never had a problem.. until this horrible place."
--"She completely gave up on me."
--"After a 2 hour goose chase, My package did NOT get sent and I left the post office in tears."
--"Long lines, incompetent staff... I'd rather just take the packages to China myself."
--"This really is the worst post office ever. to top off every bad experience i have had there (and they all have been) they were closed an hour early this evening for no reason.
--"Avoid this post office at all costs."
--"GO ELSEWHERE. THIS PLACE IS A JOKE."
--"This place is hell, they never have forms, is filthy, and they blast trash TV to "distract" people from their mess."
--"I almost got jumped by two women in this post office about 4 years ago, now I cannot get them to forward my mail to a new address, it must be in a gigantic pile there somewhere."
--"This post office is THE WORST."
--"She completely gave up on me."
--"After a 2 hour goose chase, My package did NOT get sent and I left the post office in tears."
--"Long lines, incompetent staff... I'd rather just take the packages to China myself."
--"This really is the worst post office ever. to top off every bad experience i have had there (and they all have been) they were closed an hour early this evening for no reason.
--"Avoid this post office at all costs."
--"GO ELSEWHERE. THIS PLACE IS A JOKE."
--"This place is hell, they never have forms, is filthy, and they blast trash TV to "distract" people from their mess."
--"I almost got jumped by two women in this post office about 4 years ago, now I cannot get them to forward my mail to a new address, it must be in a gigantic pile there somewhere."
--"This post office is THE WORST."
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Yesterday, A Tragedy
First, I stayed home from the office, mainly to work on some state standards alignments, which are lengthy, boring, and need a pretty high level of brain focus to do them correctly. In this way, it's good for me to be at home, away from the office phone and the onslaught of emails pouring into my line of vision, demanding attention. However, it was also good to just have a day at home working in my pajamas. I didn't put real clothes on until I had to go to the store for hot dog buns--how schlumpy.
I guess some people take the day off and they get up, go to a museum, have lunch with friends, do laundry, bake bread, watch their soaps, and go to bed early. Not me, I just lay around and feel sorry for myself. I do nothing, and I did nothing--other than the work I had to do for work. I basically do the opposite of productive, in all areas. I eat badly (chronicled via Twitter to the right,) I don't shower, I trash the apartment with dirty dishes and empty soda cans. If one of the cats pukes, I let it sit there until it dries--and sometimes, if it's mostly food and not a hairball--they'll eat it again in the middle of the night. They're either eating their own puke, or their sibling's. (That grossness you're feeling right now, thinking of a cat eating his sister's puke--that's my yesterday all day.)
There was a surprise party planned for my friend Cindy, who turns 40 today. (Happy Birthday!!) But her plane was delayed and eventually canceled, not putting her into JFK until around midnight. The party, thus, was canceled. But the cake I made was still sitting--in its various pieces; icing, filling, layers--ready to be carted down to Lefferts Gardens and assembled. I opted to build the thing anyway, let Cindy eat it piece by piece for the next week or so, however long it lasted. Which, for a cake, can be a day or two, or a long time if you play it right. On my way to her house, I managed to somehow get my finger caught in the door of a bodega on Flatbush Avenue, and although it didn't hurt so much, it bled an awful lot.
I wasn't happy with the icing, which was a basic brown sugar buttercream. It was airy and pristine when I made it--and even when I took it out of the fridge to soften, it looked amazing, and it tasted fantastic--sweet, a bit savory, caramely. But then once I gave it a stir with the offset, something changed. I guess it "broke," or whatever French buttercream does--meaning, began melting and separating back into it's parts: butter, brown sugar, egg whites. It looked like spackle made from oatmeal. It was hideous. Spotted, thick, hideous. I wanted to toss the whole thing into the garbage.
I don't really do things that I can't do well. Those of you who know me, know that this is both a strength, and the cause of my endless anxiety. Food is maybe my favorite way to show and share love, and here I'd failed to make something as gorgeous and important as my feelings for the birthday girl. I felt like a failure. Maybe I took it a bit too hard. And how strange is this--or perhaps not strange at all--but the bad icing made me feel, more than anything else: Lonely.
I guess some people take the day off and they get up, go to a museum, have lunch with friends, do laundry, bake bread, watch their soaps, and go to bed early. Not me, I just lay around and feel sorry for myself. I do nothing, and I did nothing--other than the work I had to do for work. I basically do the opposite of productive, in all areas. I eat badly (chronicled via Twitter to the right,) I don't shower, I trash the apartment with dirty dishes and empty soda cans. If one of the cats pukes, I let it sit there until it dries--and sometimes, if it's mostly food and not a hairball--they'll eat it again in the middle of the night. They're either eating their own puke, or their sibling's. (That grossness you're feeling right now, thinking of a cat eating his sister's puke--that's my yesterday all day.)
There was a surprise party planned for my friend Cindy, who turns 40 today. (Happy Birthday!!) But her plane was delayed and eventually canceled, not putting her into JFK until around midnight. The party, thus, was canceled. But the cake I made was still sitting--in its various pieces; icing, filling, layers--ready to be carted down to Lefferts Gardens and assembled. I opted to build the thing anyway, let Cindy eat it piece by piece for the next week or so, however long it lasted. Which, for a cake, can be a day or two, or a long time if you play it right. On my way to her house, I managed to somehow get my finger caught in the door of a bodega on Flatbush Avenue, and although it didn't hurt so much, it bled an awful lot.
I wasn't happy with the icing, which was a basic brown sugar buttercream. It was airy and pristine when I made it--and even when I took it out of the fridge to soften, it looked amazing, and it tasted fantastic--sweet, a bit savory, caramely. But then once I gave it a stir with the offset, something changed. I guess it "broke," or whatever French buttercream does--meaning, began melting and separating back into it's parts: butter, brown sugar, egg whites. It looked like spackle made from oatmeal. It was hideous. Spotted, thick, hideous. I wanted to toss the whole thing into the garbage.
I don't really do things that I can't do well. Those of you who know me, know that this is both a strength, and the cause of my endless anxiety. Food is maybe my favorite way to show and share love, and here I'd failed to make something as gorgeous and important as my feelings for the birthday girl. I felt like a failure. Maybe I took it a bit too hard. And how strange is this--or perhaps not strange at all--but the bad icing made me feel, more than anything else: Lonely.
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