First!

The nice thing about writing your own blog is that you can still write the first post of the year in October if you haven’t written anything new for over 14 months.  But then, if you don’t want the blog to become one of the billions of frozen corpses on the Everst of the internet’s onward march into the future, you’ve got to keep writing.

Sarah Palin’s Big Day

Little Miss Sarah had just finished installing her hand-baked oil rig in the back yard and was busy not-aborting her fifth child when an old, old man with a wide, saggy face and a lot of scary younger men in black suits and sunglasses and funny little twisty wires snaking into their ears came striding up the path of the little governor’s cottage in Juneau.  “Oh my word, what a day to leave those old dog sleds out on the front tundra,” Little Miss Sarah whispered to herself as she wiped the crude oil from her hands and trotted just as fast as she could to the door just as one of the scary men in sunglasses started rap-rap-rapping on the panels.

“Sarah Palin?” the man said as she opened the door and peeped out.

“Yes, that’s me,” Little Miss Sarah said timidly. Even though she enjoyed shooting wolves from airplanes, something about these men filled her with a certain apprehension.  “I certainly hope I’m not being offered the Vice-Presidency,” she thought to herself.  “Why, I don’t even know what the Vice President does every day. I mean, I’m just not sure it’s a fruitful type of position, especially for Alaskans and for the things that we’re trying to accomplish up here for the rest of the U.S.”

But as soon as the men heard her speak, they stood aside and the old, old man with the saggy face came forward with a smile which turned her blood to ice.  But the words he spoke, despite the thoughts which had just been running through her head, warmed her little heart.

“Sarah,” he said, “I’m John McCain, and I’m running for president of the whole entire country of America, and I’ve been secretly watching you for months.  Even when no one else outside of Wasilla even knew you existed, I’ve thought you were…well…I’ve thought you were the one for me.”  He blushed and looked down.  But a moment later he took a deep, deep breath, held his head high, looked at her with an expression of ghastly kindness and said “Sarah, will you be my Vice President?”

How Little Miss Sarah’s mind reeled!  She hadn’t been this happy since watching that group of polar bears drown.  The man running for president wanted her to be by his side!  But still, something crowded its way into her mind.

“But Old Mr. McCain, why me?” she asked.  “Why not Mitt Romney or Tim Pawlenty or Joe Lieberman or Mike Huckabee or Colin Powell or Rudy Giuliani or Michael Bloomberg?  They all have much more gravitas than I do, and more than two-tenths of one percent of the country has heard of them.”

“Well,” said Old Mr. McCain, “Mr. Lieberman is Jewish and Mr. Romney is something called a ‘Mormon,’ so my good friend Mike Duncan told me I wasn’t allowed to ask them, no matter how hard I begged.  Mr. Pawlenty is completely boring, Mr. Huckabee has a funny name and is crazy, and everybody laughs at Mr. Giuliani for mentioning 9-11 too much, the terrible day on which as many people died in one day as die in car accidents every single month year after year which no one ever talks about or even seems to notice.  And Mr. Bloomberg thinks for himself way too much, and is mayor of a place called ‘New York’ which is full of gays and hispanics and artists with long hair.  Plus, he’s Jewish too even though he doesn’t act like it.  But,” Old Mr. McCain continued, “the most important reason I didn’t pick any of them is because I’m not the only person running for president of this great nation of ours.  As it turns out, I’m running against a colored man named Barack Saddam Hussein Ayatollah Khomeini Hitler Obama who barely won his own primary election against a woman named Big Ma Hillary, and the newspapers and tee-vee shows just keep saying over and over and over again how many of her supporters are just furious that they won’t have the chance to vote for a lady.  Because, as I think we both know” (and here he nudged Little Miss Sarah in the ribs, an action which made a clammy shudder run all through her much-more-attractive body), “the only reason Big Ma Hillary’s supporters were supporting her was because she was, you know, a girl.  And as everyone knows, girl voters only care about voting according to superficial demographic categories rather than on issues.  That’s why it was such a silly idea to allow them to vote back in 1919, only seventeen years before I was born.”

Little Miss Sarah considered this for a moment.  “Then why not ask Olympia Snowe or Kay Bailey Hutchison or Jodi Rell or Susan Collins or Elizabeth Dole or even Linda Lingle?”

“Well, you see, Sarah, that’s a complicated question” said Old Mr. McCain, strangely not bothering to shoo away a horsefly which had landed directly on top of his head.  “But the short answer is, they all said no.”

“In fact, they said no while backing quickly away and waving their hands in front of their faces,” Old Mr. McCain added.

Little Miss Sarah looked around the little Governor’s Cottage with an unfamiliar, hard gleam in her eye.  She looked at the old polar bear blood stains on the walls, at the spent shotgun shell casings cluttering up the dining room floor, at the slowly melting tundra outside her door.  “All roads in Juneau lead nowhere,” said Little Miss Sarah with a sudden coldness.

“Now, that’s not true,” said Old Mr. McCain, attempting a kindly smile which Little Miss Sarah avoided looking at.  “Being governor, even of a state like Alaska, is perfect training for the very distinctly possible event that, when I fall and break my hip, or my heart attacks me, or I have a stroke on the day after I take office, you’ll have to become president and take over the reins and run the U.S. government all by yourself for four years.”

“No,” said Little Miss Sarah, “I just meant that in Juneau, all roads really do lead nowhere.  It’s the only capital city in the United States not accessible by road.”

But old Mr. McCain didn’t hear her because he was seeing Little Miss Sarah’s makeup for the first time.  “What a cunt,” he muttered.  “Why didn’t anyone tell me she was such a trollop?”  But Little Miss Sarah had already gotten on the plane to St. Paul, so she didn’t hear Old Mr. McCain say this, or see him punch the closest Secret Service agent in the face a second later.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the agent, his blood mingling with the moose carcasses underfoot.  “I was just shooing that horsefly off your head.”

“Oh, I thought you were making fun of my bald patch again!” chuckled Old Mr. McCain.  He flashed a grin at all his men and off they went to write the press release.

Sub Watch

Notable things seen in and around the NY Subway.  First in an occasional series.

Ad Watch

Notable products of the 21st-century juggernaut of advertising.  First in an occasional series.

Finally On The Coastal Waters…

A meandering tour of the vicinity of New York City with NOAA All-Hazards Radio, on a gently raining and foggy night…

In Central Park: the temperature was 64 degrees; the dew-point 63; and the relative humidity 94 percent. The pressure was 30.04 inches and rising.

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Elsewhere in the Metropolitan Area: temperatures were between 63 and 68 degrees.

At LaGuardia Airport: Rain was falling.

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At White Plains: Fog was reported.

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At Newark: It was cloudy.

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At Kennedy: Rain and fog were reported.

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Across Long Island: Temperatures were between 66 and 69 degrees.

At Farmingdale: A thunderstorm was reported.

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At Islip: Rain was falling.

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At Westhampton: It was mostly cloudy.

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In New Jersey, at Teterboro: A thunderstorm was reported, with a temperature of 67.

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At Trenton: It was mostly cloudy, with a temperature of 66.

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It was cloudy, with a temperature of 67 at Caldwell.

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64 at Morristown.

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And 66 at Linden.

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In southwest Connecticut: Temperatures were between 65 and 69 degrees.

At Bridgeport: Rain was falling.

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At Danbury: Fog was reported.

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At New Haven: Rain and fog were reported.

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Finally On the Coastal Waters: The buoy 20 nautical miles south of Fire Island Inlet recorded north winds at 10 knots; air temperature was 72 degrees; and the sea-surface temperature was 74 degrees. Wave height, 3 feet, with a period of 9 seconds.

FOCW wishes the East Coast a pleasant night.

Alice Through the Looking Glass

- Hey look, that’s Bob over there, sitting up ahead of us.  Who’s he got his arm around?

- Wait, that’s a girl, isn’t it?  Does he have his arm around a girl?

- Oh my gosh, he does!

- Wow!

- So…is Bob, like…

- Um…

- Straight?

- Wow.

- No, that’s totally cool if he is.  I just didn’t know that about him.  I mean, he’s never, like, said anything about it.  I mean, don’t you think he would have said, you know, “hey, I’m straight” at some point?  I mean, we’ve known him for like two years.

- No, I know, it’s not like it’s any of our business, but still, you know…  I just hadn’t thought of him as, you know, straight.  Now I kind of have to think of him like that.

- That’s so weird.  But no, it’s totally cool, like I said.  I mean it’s totally cool.  I really don’t care.  A lot of people are straight, it’s not like it’s something weird.  I’ve known other straight people.  I mean everybody has.  It’s the twenty-first century, it’s not like it’s that big of a deal.

- So I wonder who that is.  I’d totally be willing to meet his girlfriend.  It totally wouldn’t bother me at all.  If that’s who she is.  I mean, if she’s not just some girl that, you know, he’s got his arm around.

- Oh my god, he just kissed her!  Did you see that?  Oh my god!  Oh my god.  Dude, that was totally weird.

- Dude, do you think they’ve…?

- Dude, oh my god, don’t even go there.  I don’t think I’m ready to think about Bob like that yet, dude.

- Nah, but like I said, it’s totally cool.  But you know, I’m feeling a little pissed that he never told us.  I mean, wouldn’t you think he’d trust us enough to tell us something like that?  I mean, we wouldn’t give him any shit about it.

- Nah, totally.  I mean everyone would be totally cool with it.  I mean, well, Brian would probably say some dumb-ass shit about it, but whatever, I mean, he doesn’t mean it when he says stuff like that anyway.

- Nah, totally.

- So I wonder if he has told anyone.  Dude, do you think Joe knows that Bob’s straight?

- I know, they totally lived together for like two years!  He’s gotta have told Joe.  I mean, how could you live with someone and just not tell them you were straight?  I mean, if I’d lived with Bob for two whole years and he didn’t tell me he was straight right away, I’d be like, what the hell?  You’re gonna live with me but not trust me?

- Totally.

- Unless…

- Oh shit, do you think…?

- Yeah, oh man, do you think Joe’s straight?

- Holy shit…

- Wow…

- Yo, dude, do you think they ever…like…brought girlfriends home at the same time?

- I know, it’s pretty fuckin’ weird to think of Bob and Joe hanging out together with a couple of girlfriends tagging along.  Yeah, I know, it’s kind of disturbing.

- But hey, man, it happens, you know?

- I know, dude, but come on, it’s Bob and Joe.  I mean we were just hanging out with them all last weekend. I’m sure they weren’t scoping out chicks together when the rest of us weren’t looking.  Like some little secret thing between the two of them?  That’s totally not them.

- Okay, I don’t know man, what if they were?  Whatever.

- Yeah, but it just doesn’t bother me as much.

- Oh, so just because it doesn’t bother me, it’s because I must be friends with some straight person or something?

- No shit, man, I know you mean apart from Bob and Joe.

- …

- No, I know you’re not gonna laugh at me.  I just don’t really go around telling this to people.

- Okay.  My parents are straight, dude.

- Dude, chillax, all right?  It’s not like they’re fuckin’ aliens or something.  You don’t have to be all ballistic about it.

- Okay, dude, just chill all right?  People are looking.

- No problem.  It’s okay.

- Yes! They’re really straight!  Why the fuck would I lie about something like that?

- Thank you.  It’s okay.  No it’s fine.  Really.

- Just…

- Just don’t say anything to Bob.  Or Joe.  I don’t want them to hear it from you, okay?

- Thanks.  You may be an ass half the time, but I know you can keep a secret, dude.

- You knew a straight guy in high school?  Really?  One of the teachers?

- Oh, it was your high-school gym coach?  Well no shit, dude, whose gym coach wasn’t straight?  Mine was too, and he even brought his wife to the baseball games, and nobody even acted like it was weird or anything.  I think it was because everyone know that, deep down, he was a really good guy.  And when you really know someone, you realize that we’re all a lot more the same than we are different.  No matter what a person looks like on the surface.

- No, let’s just leave Bob and his girlfriend alone for now.  Trust me, straight people prefer to tell their friends and family about themselves at their own pace, when they’re ready.  I’m sure he’ll feel comfortable enough with us to trust us with that information eventually.  But, fuck you, dude, not if you make jokes like that.  Come on.

PABT and the Noble Fight Against Photography

Due to the tragic spillage of a Sigg bottle full of Vitamin Water all over the server at amNewYork’s central headquarters last week by the assistant sub-editor of the Sports section, a number of articles were permanently deleted from the electronic archives of New York City’s most widely-read subway-based newspaper.  They are being re-created from memory and whatever wadded-up notes could be rescued from the trash.  amNewYork regrets the error, but is happy to report that FOCW, New York City’s most widely-read blog, has donated space for the electronic re-printing of our first re-constructed article.  We invite you to read it below:

“FORT” AUTHORITY BUS TERMINAL

Latest anti-photography initiatives at NYC’s most beloved public building have cost $100M and counting

The best evidence of the beefed-up security at the Port Authority Bus Terminal might be that a guy snapping photos inside can get stopped five times – once by a Port Authority employee, once by a plain-clothes cop, once by a homeless guy who wants you to give him five dollars because he claims you took his picture without asking him, once by a pair of German tourists who want you to take their picture with their own camera, and once by a uniformed cop who tears your camera out of your hand and only refrains from dashing it – and you – to the floor because you were able to hastily assure him that you’re not somehow affiliated with Critical Mass.

“They don’t like it when people start taking pictures,” a Port Authority functionary said with a nervous glance at the smoked-glass enclosure on the upper level where the mechanical brain of the Port Authority senses even the very smallest infraction of the rules, the very slightest instance of something out-of-line.  But ignores all of it except when someone draws attention to himself by pulling out a camera.  The reporter was escorted to the bus station’s administrative office where the confusion was cleared up.  Though what this “confusion” referred to exactly – whether to what the constitutional rights are of a US citizen in a public place, or to the, shall we say, “misunderstandings” which can result when an unnecessary rule is selectively enforced depending on who is breaking it – the reporter forgot to mention.

The busiest bus station in the world, where some 200,000 terrorists passengers come through each weekday, has during the past year taken steps to prohibit photography, which has directly resulted in the foiling of at least 274 plans to blow up the Port Authority in the past month alone.  “[The PABT] has all the attributes of a suburban shopping mall, such as homeless people, surly employees, broken public art and vile restrooms, and a major transportation facility, such as a complete lack of anywhere to sit or to store luggage, and a pervasive, unrelenting sense of total paranoia amongst the staff at large,” said Ernesto Caudiis, the Port Authority’s chief operating officer.  “It is in the category of those kind of facilities that have been targeted around the world, and as Sir Isaac Newton proved over three hundred years ago, a building cannot – absolutely CAN NOT – be hit with a terrorist attack until some part of it is photographed by a tourist or an amateur photographer.  Therefore, at a cost of $100 million, we have set out to prevent this building from ever being photographed again.  Except by the press, who can of course photograph the building all they like and then publish those photographs in newspapers which will be read by hundreds of thousands of terrorists people.  That’s absolutely fine.”

The Port Authority has added steel cross braces to the south side of the south building as a seismic retrofit – a halfway-completed project to help the structure withstand natural disasters and which therefore has absolutely nothing to do with security but which is being noted here in order to fill up a couple of extra lines.  Exterior columns were strengthened.  Security cameras were added.  “Security cameras are important,” Mr. Caudiis noted, “because in the event of a major terrorist attack on the building, it will be very important to be able to supply actual footage of the attack to the major TV news programs.”  And are the cameras being used preventatively as well?  “Oh yes,” Mr. Caudiis said.  “Images from all 217 cameras are fed to two grainy monitors which are stared at vacantly by poorly-paid security guards, whenever they’re not dozing off or staring blankly at the floor which is hardly ever.”

Other security additions include bollards along Eighth Avenue to keep vehicles from ramming the building.  The glass in the doors and the walls along the east and north sides of the building has been made shatter-proof.  But the sad truth remains: all of this will be rendered absolutely useless should some unauthorized person take a snapshot of the Port Authority building someday.

Nicholas Detemi, a security consultant, said that while it’s impossible to thwart all attacks, you can still pay his firm a lot of money to devise high-profile “security upgrades” mostly involving increased passenger inconvenience and the redistribution of finite resources towards efforts at security theatre and away from actual, behind-the-scenes anti-terrorist detective work and intelligence activities.  “That stuff’s not visibly impressive or glamorous, so who cares,” Mr. Detemi said.  “Nobody’s gonna pay me six figures to tell them the FBI needs more staff and funding, and that until they get it – I don’t care how many bollards they stick in the sidewalk – they’re basically at the mercy of sweet Jesus Christ.”

This Has Never Happened To Anyone

Ah yes, there he is.  He wasn’t sitting in the front when you walked in so you thought perhaps you’d arrived early, but no, he’s way off there in the back for some reason.  You stand in line to get a coffee you don’t really want; you’re not just going to sit there at the table with him and twiddle your thumbs.

He doesn’t even look up once while you get your coffee – he’s reading something.  Must be awfully interesting.  If you were waiting for someone, you’d be right up front where the person would see you coming through the door, and you’d peek up every now and again, just to, you know, see if he was there yet.  But then this is the way he’s been lately.

You don’t really want to go through with this.

Someone hands you your coffee concoction – it has some kind of coined, corporate name, and you thought it would be hot but it’s actually some kind of frozen slushy drink. Well, whatever.  At least now you won’t feel like a complete tool approaching the table; at least it signifies you took the time to buy something and didn’t just run right over to him the minute you spotted him.  That’s right.  Let him know you’re not desperate.  You’ve been making sure about not seeming desperate for the past five months in fact.  And this is how well it’s worked out.

Well, it’s too late now.

At least he looks up when you approach; you don’t have to shake him by the shoulder or yell at him to get his attention.  It’s kind of loud in here, which you guess is good, since there are people at all the tables packed around the one he’s sitting at.  Not the most private place to have this kind of conversation.  Actually, exactly what “kind” of conversation this will be is yet to be determined, but from the way the past two weeks have gone, you assume it’s going to be the kind of conversation where you don’t see each other for a long while afterwards.

He smiles at you when he looks up and sees you, the same smile he always gives you, warm and apparently delighted to see you.  He gets up and steps forward and hugs you, and your messenger bag (you just came from work) shifts its weight awkwardly and bangs against both your and his thighs and you squirm to try to get it to swing back behind you while you try to return his hug but not too eagerly lest he think you’re too needy.  You still have a little pride, and you’d like him to know this.  It feels as though it’s about the only thing you do have right now.

“It’s great to see you,” he says as you both sit back down.  “I’m glad we finally got a chance to catch up, it’s been a really long time!”  Yes, you think, it has been a long time, a long two weeks of making plans and making plans, only to have him call you up at almost literally the last minute each time and apologetically cancel them.  He tells you it’s not because he’s seeing someone else (you’d gently inquired if this might be one possible explanation for his recent withdrawl) – it’s just that he has a lot of work lately, and has to stay late at the office a lot, and has a lot of other personal things to, you know, work through right now.  He goes on about this for a few minutes.  You’ve heard it before, though you listen intently, hoping to find some new nugget of explanation, something you haven’t heard before which suddenly throws everything into stunning focus, but there’s nothing, just further mushy re-hashing of “personal stuff” and “I’m just in a rut right now.”  And he wants to be fair – yes fair! – to you, and not, you know, drag you through his personal confusion.  And so, perhaps it really would be best if things, you know, stopped between the two of you.

After that, all the rest is so much mopping up.  There’s some pitiful pointing out of the holes in his story, a little attempt to negotiate, but you know that he’s not going to change his mind, and that even if he did it wouldn’t be good anymore.  And through it all he keeps that goddamn smile on his face, that nice, sweet-guy smile, a smile which melted your heart for five months and which suddenly looks artificial now, as though you can suddenly detect a seam behind his ears and see how those smiling lips don’t really move when he speaks.  And you wonder at what point that face became a mask because presumably it was genuine at some point back in the beginning, back when he was e-mailing you in the mornings and texting you all day and making transparent excuses to come back to your apartment after brunch and talk some more even though you were going to just walk him to the train.

The conversation’s over now.  The hammer has fallen, and something small and beautiful has smashed.  There are a few minutes of small talk, and then a moment of silence.  You break it by giving a brave little sigh and saying you might as well start heading towards the subway so you can get home before it gets too late.  And he says yes, and that he’ll probably head over across the park and buy a CD for a friend, and you walk a little way together, each of you occasionally saying one thing or another of no consequence.  You’re both getting pretty close to the CD store and it almost looks as though he’s expecting you to follow him in there and actually hang out with him while he buys a CD for this “friend” of his, so you stop on the corner and say, I think I’ll head this way now; it was good to see you.  And he says oh, okay, and you say good night to each other and there’s another awkward hug, and this time you really don’t squeeze him very hard – in fact, you try to do that hug where it’s just the tops of your biceps barely touching his sides and your fingertips just lightly touching his back, and then you pat his back a couple of times because a friend of yours once said that patting someone’s back while hugging him makes the hug feel perfunctory and insincere.  And then there’s the final, wordless nod while a fragment of true regret seems to be revealed for a moment in his eyes, and you feel the same beginning to flow from your own.  So you turn and walk away into the crowd.  And even though you desperately want to, you force yourself not to look back, and even though you end up walking five blocks across town which takes fifteen minutes you still don’t look back, not even once.

First!

The best thing about starting a blog is that YOU can be the first poster for the whole entire thing!  It only happens once, though.  And then…you’ve got to start writing.