The Langurs

Some thoughts on a recent viral monkey video

If pressed to speculate, I would guess that they were studying the interactions among a social group of langur monkeys, that the animatronic doll was meticulously designed, treated with chemicals to simulate pheromones, testing the group’s response to the toy, as somber scientists with brown hats and clipboards checked boxes on a spreadsheet, designed by a graduate student on the brink of a successful thesis.

And perhaps that’s true. Perhaps this was a double-blind, controlled experiment from which important data will be harvested and assimilated into the hefty annals of Things We Know about Langurs. Or perhaps this was more scatter-shot, an unexpected experimental note sounded in the unlikeliest of jungles at the direction of a scientific maestro, performing a symphony of intuitive investigation in the empty forest, to see if it makes a sound.

Or maybe it was a lark by a bored primatologist, hungover from one too many flutes of champagne at the social mixer after the previous night’s zoology conference, looking from the animatronic toy to the monkeys and back again, and moved to act by that most innocent curiosity of youth, let’s just see what happens.

One morning they awoke to find a child in their village. It was not a baby, but a toddler, though borne of no parents among them. There was something different about the child. It was not his appearance, his scent, or the way he moved, but there was something. You could sense it immediately. The child was one of them, anyone could see that. It was also different, something more. Something divine?

They held it in their arms, tried to care for it. It wouldn’t eat. They guided it onto limbs and showed it how to grasp and balance, but it wouldn’t learn. It was a part of their group, and yet apart from them all, somehow. Then it fell. It fell like a lifeless ragdoll, with a thud and a flop and then stillness, onto the forest bed below. It died there.

Perhaps the scientists learned something worthwhile from observing the interactions of the langur monkeys with their animatronic toy. Perhaps the field of scientific knowledge expanded in some appreciable way. Perhaps an eccentric, distinguished researcher won additional acclaim for their findings. Perhaps the primatologist stifled laughs from behind the nearest broad-trunked tree, admiring their own handiwork, mocking the stupid monkeys.

All I know is that on one unseasonably warm day in February, a short video emerged from the flash and din of the web, a two minute testament to the langurs, and how they showed humanlike compassion and mourning in the wake of the death of the toy monkey. It was a good video, edited down to just the highlights, they’re so cute, so precious, so misguidedly sad.

Yet I wonder, too, about how the langur experienced this episode in their history. The mysterious arrival, the sudden departure, the otherworldly creature who was, for just a moment, a part of their lives. Do they remember the toy monkey? Do they question where it came from, or why? Do they tell stories of this strange happening to their young? Do they even tell stories? Does a langur monkey, as it lays down to rest, sleeplessly stir, speculating on the meaning of this strange experience, or its broader implications for their lives?

It’s funny, imagining those monkeys as they push up against the very limits of their understanding and ability to reason, trying to make sense of a toy monkey thrust suddenly in their midst. Silly monkeys.

And yet there’s a small part of me that wants to listen, to listen very carefully, for the echoes of stifled laughter from behind the nearest bright star.

-Andrew

Published in: on February 24, 2017 at 4:43 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Butchering Foreign Languages

Thousands of miles apart, two butchers are cut from the same apron.

Last year, I had the opportunity to spend a week in Germany.  It was my second visit to the country, and one of the most surprising- and relieving- things that I learned is that the majority of Germans appear to have at least some degree of fluency in English.  As I speak no other languages apart from the smattering of phrases I pick up any time I travel abroad, this helped immeasurably; I was able to converse mostly without the assistance of my bilingual host.

On one particular day of our visit there, we stopped into a butcher shop.  Our host selected some local delicacy as a morning snack, and it was beyond good. The meat was fresh, the cheese was potent and creamy, and the bread was crispy on the edges and soft in the middle.  As we were standing just outside the shop, munching on our delightful meal, I remembered Black Forest Ham.

I capitalized the term for a reason.  Here in the states, there is a trendy meat product labeled black forest ham.  Like applewood smoked bacon or slow roasted chicken, that product is more adjective than substance; it still tastes like only a slight departure from the central protein with which we are all familiar.  So, when my host offered me Black Forest Ham on my first day in Heidelberg, I assumed I knew what I was in for.

I was wrong.

Among other natural features, there is a forest near Heidelberg called the Black Forest.  They produce, inter alia, ham.  Or, rather, Ham.  It tastes closer to prosciutto than to the stateside protein slop that passes as black forest ham in America, with a peppery smell and a crispness that is just…no, an adjective won’t work here.  You really should just to try it.

So, back to the butcher, we’re standing outside and I’m remembering how good that Black Forest Ham was, and I decide that I’m going to do something nice for my traveling companions.  I resolve to go back into the butcher shop, order about half a pound of Black Forest Ham, and we can take it along as a snack during our day, in which we planned to do several miles of country walking.  Resolved, I headed back into the shop.

Now, earlier I mentioned that most Germans I encountered speak at least some English.  The elderly man behind the counter in the butcher shop was not one of them.  Not only that, he didn’t even want to try.  No matter, I thought, I can point to what I want, and I know how to count to ten in German.  What could possibly go wrong?

Several things, as quickly became apparent.  First of all, counting to ten doesn’t give you the ability to say “one half pound.”  I tried to say “zero point five pounds” but that didn’t seem to translate, not the least of which because, like the rest of the civilized world, Germany is on the metric system.  The butcher looked bored.  Nobody else was in the store.  We were getting nowhere.

Frantically, I tried to remember my conversion tables between pounds and kilos.  One of them is bigger, about two times bigger, I seemed to recall.  I couldn’t remember which was bigger.  I decided to take a gamble.  “Ein kilo,” I clearly articulated, pointing to the Black Forest Ham.  Without a word, he lifted the meat, and began slicing.

It only took a few moments for me to realize that this was going to be more than half a pound.  The pile of meat kept growing.  Finally, he stopped.  It was five inches tall.  He reached for another piece of meat, and continued slicing.  My friends were at the window, still outside, looking at me with a mix of humor and confusion.  I had purchased 2.2 pounds of meat “as a snack.”  We ate it for the rest of our trip, with every meal, and never did finish it.  It still tasted great.

That anecdote was on my mind today as I walked into the grocery store around the corner from my apartment in Queens, New York.  I needed a pound of skirt steak, and walked up to the butcher.  Now, I should mention here that Queens is a big, diverse place, and my neighborhood, Jackson Heights, is overwhelmingly Ecuadoran and Columbian.  I am in the vast linguistic minority.  Still, most shop owners here can at least manage enough English to conduct transactions.

Not this butcher.

I pointed to the skirt steak, and confidently asked for one pound.  “Una pieza?”  He said.  “No, one pound, not one piece.”

He shook his head.  “Non, una pieza.”  He had decided for me.  With experience on my side from that German butcher last year, I decided not to take it lying down.  “No,” I said, “uno POUND.”

“Que?”

Frustrated, I pulled out my phone and started looking up the translation.  The metric system shouldn’t be an issue, I figured, as the prices were all listed by the pound.  Google came to the rescue. “Una libra!”  I was triumphant.

“Non,” he calmly replied, “una pieza.”

I got mad.  “Una libra!  Non una pieza.”

“Si, una pieza.”

“No!” I said, maybe a little too loudly.  Other customers were taking notice, which is always to be avoided in New York’s public places.  He didn’t respond.  He just put the single piece, una pieza, on the scale.

It weighed 0.98 pounds.

I’m not entirely sure if I blushed in embarrassment, but it’s likely.  I finished my shopping quickly and headed home, thinking of Germany, Jackson Heights, and the two unwritten rules I had learned: butchers can speak whatever language they damn well please, and we challenge them at our own peril.  Enough writing, dinner’s almost ready.

-AG

Published in: on June 14, 2016 at 4:45 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Peanuts and Crackerjack

A few thoughts from my recent trip to Citi Field. 

When I was growing up, baseball was the only sport that consistently held my attention.  Around the age of ten, I collected baseball cards, with a particular focus on my favorite player, Barry Bonds*.

I played on my high school team, an undersized underclassman with funky hair and a funkier sidearm-delivery pitch.  I wasn’t good, but I wasn’t terrible, and playing the game was always a joy.  I stopped after my sophomore year, with the recognition that any aspirations to be a professional athlete were woefully misplaced.

Still, I remained and remain a baseball fan.  While I don’t follow my beloved San Francisco Giants with anywhere near the fanboy enthusiasm I reserve for Kentucky basketball, I keep up with the team, cheering at their successes and commiserating when they lose.

About a month ago, it came to my attention that they were doing quite well this year.  That recognition- prompted by a series sweep of the hated Dodgers- was coupled by another: I lived in New York for three years, and had never been to Citi Field.  So, I did a quick search on sfgiants.com, and found out that yes, the Giants were coming to town, in mid-June, for three weekday games….at 4:30 in the afternoon.

I was pissed.  Like many professionals, my work obligations are not consistent with mid-afternoon weekday games.  The more I thought about it, the more angry I became.  We taxpayers fund the bonds that built Citi Field, and for our troubles we get games that we can’t attend?  No wonder their attendance is piss poor!  I wrote a Facebook rant, my venom seething from each pixel, and was about to click “submit” when a thought occurred to me: I had viewed the time on the Giants’ web site.  The San Francisco Giants’ web site.  Listing times in Pacific Standard Time.  Locally, the games started at 7:30.

Social media crisis averted, I bought a ticket for the June 9 game.  I was very excited: the last game I attended was Barry Bonds* last home game, played in San Francisco’s AT&T Park.  It had been several years, and I was eager to return to the ballpark, and watch the game I have enjoyed, in various degrees, for most of my life.

I arrived early: my bosses were so amused by my ticket purchase story that they encouraged me to take an early exit and catch batting practice.  My seats, in the left field bleachers, were prime real estate during the pregame, and as luck would have it, I managed to catch a practice home run ball hit by Buster Posey, the best of the current crop of Giants hitters, checking a minor item off my personal bucket list.

The game itself was everything I remember.  Now, baseball games on TV are boring, but in person the atmosphere is wonderful.  This was a memorable game, too: the Giants managed to win by way of a no-hitter, only the second in history against the Mets.  I was in full Giants’ regalia, including my Barry Bonds* jersey, and found moments of camaraderie with fellow fans of the visiting club.

An afternoon at the ballpark is a really great way to break up the work week.  I recommend it to anyone.

~Andrew

*Barry Bonds is still the greatest player in the history of the game, full stop.  Haters gonna hate.

Published in: on June 10, 2015 at 1:19 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Pieces of Grandma Jeanne

About ten years ago, my paternal grandmother, Grandma Jeanne, passed away.  She was a giant figure in my childhood, and in our family, and I want to share a few reflections about her.

Thanksgiving was her holiday, which is to say, it was our holiday with her.  This was fairly significant when I was young, because she lived in California, and we were in Kentucky.  Each year, she would make the trek across the country to join us for the holiday meal.  I don’t think she missed a single one.

Her life was one of glamour and intrigue.  She married several times, including my grandfather, twice.  She was tall and elegant, always wearing huge jewelry and displaying amazing works of original art in her home.  She worked, and had some hazy ties to the mafia, eventually running into trouble with law enforcement when she refused to snitch.  I’m told that a former Las Vegas mayor still owes her lunch.

Her voice was loud, her wit was sharp, and her tone often stern.  She didn’t need to spank her kids or grandkids; after two minutes of reprimand by Grandma Jeanne, a spanking would have been a welcome reprieve.  She had two children: my dad, and a daughter who died way, way too young.  Aside from my siblings and I, she had another grandson, my cousin Jasha, and she lived just long enough to become a great-grandmother thanks to him.

In her later years, she moved to Kentucky to be closer to my dad.  We started a family tradition of having a bagel brunch at her home each Sunday.  It was an opportunity for us to spend time together as a family each week, and to really be active in each other’s lives.

She was a heavy smoker, and in her later years developed emphysema.  She couldn’t get around very easily, and soon became virtually confined to her home, dependent on a breathing machine.  As an invincible teenager, I used to smoke with her after our folks left.  Grandma and I had a special camaraderie, and we shared stories from her life, and mine.

Complications from smoking took her life, in the end, ten years ago this spring.

When she passed, I received three items to remember her by.  The first is a keychain I wove for her at summer camp as a small child, twisted bits of much-abused leather, which I still use every day.  The second is a bright orange sports coat, a relic from her glamorous days on the West Coast.  I wear it occasionally to whimsical parties, and it never fails to make an impression.

The last is a two foot high replica of a Rodin statue, depicting a man kneeling in front of a nude woman, kissing her midsection.  When we would visit Grandma Jeanne as children, she would hide that piece, since it was considered too erotic for kids.

For the longest time, both she and my dad told me it was Rodin’s “The Kiss,” but last year I learned that it is actually a different work, called “The Eternal Idol,” a small piece from his master work “The Gates of Hell.”  Funny, the disillusionment of learning that something you learned young and were very sure about was totally wrong.  Today, it sits in a place of honor on my bookshelf.

Grandma Jeanne may be gone, but she is certainly not forgotten.  I’m reminded of her style, her wit, and her contagious laugh almost every day.

One last note: after she passed, my family stopped doing Thanksgiving together.  Her last year with us was the last time my immediate family all gathered for the holiday meal.  Last November, four of us got together and decided that we need to rekindle that tradition, and with any luck, this year will bring us all together again.  Grandma Jeanne won’t be with us, except in spirit.

I’m thankful she was a part of my life.

 

 

 

Published in: on January 5, 2015 at 11:10 am  Leave a Comment  
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Lemonade

It was hot, so very hot, as I walked through Crocheron Park in Bayside. For most of the last year, it had been my practice to take a “walking lunch,” pounding three miles of pavement in the middle of my workday, an unrestful siesta from my desk-bound job function.

I have done my walk in the rain, in the snow, in the heat, the cold. During February’s blizzard, a city worker stopped his snow plow and rolled down his window just to say to me “man, I KNOW you are not out here in a suit right now!” Suffice it to say, I’m a dedicated walker.

Still, I am not immune from the challenges of climate, and on this particular Monday, the sun was bearing down in full-on oppression. The asphalt was radiating heat, the breeze was too slight, too broken by the trees and fences and buildings bordering the park, and I found myself in a full rolling sweat, a motile watering unit for the grass on either side of the trail.

As I turned the corner and began the uphill climb towards the school on the far end of the park, I saw bright colored sidewalk art, announcing in big, block letters, “FREE LEMONADE,” punctuated with an arrow indicating the direction in which I was walking.

Buoyed by this promise, I increased my pace, confident that my wallet contained at least a few dollars, a dollar being the maximum I could fathom a child would charge for a glass of lemonade, adjusting my childhood memories for inflation (the word “free” had clearly failed to register). I also realized that there was at least an even chance the lemonade would be too sour, too sugary, too watered down: judging by the chalksmanship, these were, after all, children. Mostly, I hoped they had ice.

Soon, more sidewalk art appeared: “The Mormon church is the answer,” “latter day saints” (the children sadly omitted the hyphen), “do you know Jesus?” and, with a nod to our present century, scrawled in at least a dozen places, “MORMON.ORG.”

So, this was to be the price of my refreshment: a sales pitch for the afterlife, an eager greeting on behalf of a church that evangelizes like no other.

Now, I try to cultivate a certain level of respect for religion, though I concede that most of the time, the absence of complete disdain is as far as I consistently achieve. I don’t believe in the myths, the rituals, the carrot-and-stick, the blind adherence to impossible things not condemned as madness, but praised as faith. The Mormons, however, are in an entirely different category.

They interfere in our politics, in a major and regrettable way. I recall them sinking huge money into anti-gay campaigns in California, scaring voters, using children to stoke disgust and intolerance. I know enough about their own beliefs and practices to realize that, even grading religions on a curve, they are pretty out there in terms of simply making it up as they go. I saw The Book of Mormon, and laughed so hard I cried.

This was going to be a challenge, but I was up to it: I have had many experiences with missionaries from their church, the baby-faced adolescents they ridiculously term “elders,” that were not unpleasant. One even gave me the fabled Book, which I dutifully shelved with my fiction collection, under author’s name “Smith, Joseph.”

I have also had several colleagues who were practicing members over the years, and by and large I found them to be upright, good people, invariably drawn to community service and exhibiting a high level of personal ethics. I don’t dislike Mormons, but their odds of making me a convert approach absolute zero.

With all this in mind, still dripping sweat, I rounded the corner, ready to trade a few minutes of polite attention for a refreshing beverage or two. There, at the center of the path’s homestretch, stood several benches, and just past them, mirror-image sidewalk art promising “FREE LEMONADE,” with arrows pointing in the opposite direction. The benches were empty.

All at once, it dawned on me: the signs were for an event over the now-past weekend, probably Sunday afternoon, after temple services. The enthusiastic younglings who drew the sidewalk art had no such enthusiasm about removing it when the event ended, likely heading home with their families, or to the movies, or an early dinner.

There was no lemonade, only another empty promise from an institution from which, to be fair, I should expect nothing more.

The walk back was miserable, though I did stop on Bell Boulevard for an ice-cold canned energy drink, finding good use for my unneeded dollars. As I returned to work, to finish the first installment in another work week, I was reminded of an old adage, about those times- and we all have them- when life hands you lemons.

Published in: on June 23, 2014 at 7:12 pm  Comments (2)  
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Staining the Gift Horse’s Teeth

An uncomfortable afternoon at my desk. 

I’m blessed to work with people I don’t just respect, I genuinely like.  This includes two talented associates, a paralegal, and two partners who are fun, intelligent, and help me become a better attorney.

That doesn’t mean things are always perfect at the office, however, and right now, I’m experiencing some rather acute “good intentions gone wrong” that I feel compelled to share.

Both of our firm’s partners are working moms.  They have large families, and we often have husbands or children visiting us for part of the day.  Their kids are a joy, and it’s always pleasant to have them around.

Today, one of the husbands came to the office with a treat for everyone.  That’s not particularly unusual, as we are often on the receiving end of yummy food, bottles of wine, baked goods, and other feel-good perks that are a part of our office culture.

However, the offering he brought today was a bit more…dubious.  He knows we like coffee, so he brought coffee for everyone.  Iced coffee.  From McDonalds.

Now, courtesy compelled me to take one of these condensation-covered plastic cups, and I legitimately thought I would give it a try.  I don’t recall ever having McDonalds’ iced coffee, as I greatly prefer the hot stuff, and from better places than that french fried pit of guilty pleasures.

It tasted like cold motor oil.

So, I set it down on my desk and studiously ignored it for quite some time.  Unfortunately, our office layout is very open, and both partners and husband kept coming around my desk, asking if I had gotten my coffee, encouraging me to drink it, questioning how I liked it.

Somehow “this tastes like something you found in a swamp” is not the most diplomatic way to assess a free coffee, particularly one carried by your boss’s spouse several blocks, balanced with five others.  “It’s great, thank you,” I mustered, trying to suck on the straw enough to simulate drinking without letting any of the foul black poison pass into my mouth.

This has been continuing for thirty minutes now.  I’m not sure how much longer I can continue fake-drinking without drawing comments.  This is all bad.

I think the above-anecdote qualifies as a first-world problem.  I confess my privilege, and will try to be a better gift recipient going forward.

~Andrew

Published in: on April 8, 2014 at 1:47 pm  Leave a Comment  
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How to Enjoy Sports

A few random thoughts while I wait for the UK tip off.  

I consider myself to be a moderately engaged fan of competitive team sports.  On the continuum between complete apathy and SEC frat boy, I’m almost precisely in the middle.

In baseball, I root for my SF Giants, but I don’t make a point of watching their games,  which tend to proceed at the pace of hardly.  My attention span can’t handle five minute at-bats and twenty-or-so commercial breaks between the action.  However, get me a ticket to a game, and I’m there.

Football tests my loyalties, between my genetic predisposition to root for Green Bay, my father’s hometown team, and my adopted 49ers.  This has created some intra-family playoff drama in recent years, and I distinctly recall being exiled from my home one year, at the tender age of fourteen, when I refused to back the boys in green.

The one sports team that I get behind with all my fan-boy enthusiasm, however, is the UK Wildcats basketball team.  Having grown up in Lexington and attended UK, I come by it honestly.  And I’ll be the first to admit, I go a bit overboard, wearing a UK tie to work on game days, traveling 90 minutes each way to join fellow alumni at our adopted home bar for big games, and shamelessly taunting fans of those teams so unfortunate as to oppose us.

Having spent most of my life surrounded by at least one person who aspires to complete apathy (Mom, Ashley, I’m looking at you), I have developed a grand theory of how to be a sports fan, a simple formula that any willing spectator can adopt to get the best possible experience out of their vicarious battle with The Other Guys.

According to this theory, you only need two things in order to enjoy a sports match up: a basic understanding of how the game works, and a team to root for.

This explains why, once every four years, I manage to get Really Excited about sports that aren’t on my radar screen outside the confines of the Olympics.  The announcers tend to walk us through the scoring system, and comment on what the athletes are doing right, or wrong.  Any time I see the red-white-and-blue, I have an athlete or team to support.  It’s almost too easy.

It equally explains why, despite enjoying baseball, I do not watch cricket.  The game is incomprehensible.  I have had no fewer than six people- all of them some varietal of British, appropriately enough- attempt to explain to me what is happening on the “pitch,” but the significance of the game eludes me.  Fortunately, that is a majority position among Americans, and there is no societal pressure or expectation that I figure it out.

Two days ago, I went to our local Kentucky bar for a big game, and brought a friend who is rather apathetic towards sports in general.  To ward off evil spirits, I lent him my UK tie, and together we fought through the mosh pit of blue and white to secure a table with a good view of the action.  At the beginning, he couldn’t understand why conversation was stopping when the ball was in play, but then a funny thing happened.  The enthusiasm of a hundred-or-so rabid Kentucky fans became infectious, and when the game came down to the wire in the final minute, he was rising and falling with the rest of us, holding his breath when the ball was in the air, genuinely rooting for a positive result.

Retrospectively, I consider this confirmation of my theory.

The subject is on my mind today because there is yet another Big Game for the Wildcats this afternoon, and in acquiescence to a little too much birthday cheer last night, I am considering watching the game at home.  That isn’t to say I’ll be watching it alone- my wife is here, and she is a perfect test case for my Grand Theory of Enjoying Sports.  Unlike my guy friend from the other night, she will need a bit of explanation about the game’s details- why was that a foul?  what just happened there?  is he allowed to do that?- but she asks the right questions and occasionally remembers the answers.  More crucially, she has a predisposition to root for Kentucky.  Not because she attended the school, though she did, but because she knows that my happiness will be directly, inexplicably affected by the outcome of a game taking place between ten eighteen-year-olds thousands of miles away.

So, as previously alluded, today is my birthday, and the Cats have a shot at the final four.  Life is too serious to forego a chance to associate with a sports team and live and die with their performance, once in a while.   I’ll be donning my UK sweatshirt, UK track pants, Kentucky t-shirt, and a pair of blue fuzzy socks, for good measure, yelling at the refs through the screen, cheering in a mostly-empty room when we succeed, hanging my head when things look bleak.  It’s fun to be a sports fan.

Go CATS!!

~Andrew

 

Published in: on March 30, 2014 at 8:41 am  Comments (1)  
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Not Just Another Trip to the Library

A shameless story of my own physical prowess (but not really) and sense of altruism (but not really)

As my friends, family, acquaintances, and readers of this blog know, I’m a big fan of literature.  I like to read, and my small apartment has A Lot of books in it.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, “a lot” is a rather non-specific quantitative expression.  However, thanks to my well-channeled and totally-not-weird OCD, I can tell you with particularity that I have, on my shelves right now, precisely 1,383 books, organized by owner (Ashley’s or mine), fiction/nonfiction, and the author’s name.

This enormous quantity of books is not without its downside: nearly every cubic foot of our living room houses a bookshelf, including a full-sized Ikea Billy balanced precariously over a radiator, kept from immolation only by my wife’s engineering prowess.  For that reason, we recently identified several dozen books that- for reasons of duplication or obsolescence- we decided to donate, and put in the trunk of our car.

And by “recently,” I mean about six months ago.

This weekend, we are taking a trip that will push our vehicle to the limits of  its carrying capacity, between passengers and their luggage.  Because of this, it became suddenly urgent that these books be relocated from the trunk to a suitable place of donation.

After a brief online search, I identified the library in Bayside as a suitable recipient.  It is located just three blocks from where I work, and accepts just about any donation short of last week’s compost, for shelving or resale.

Now, because of my huge surplus of at-home reading, I am not a member of the local public library; I have my own literary demons to slay without borrowing any additional reading material.  This would be my first trip to the Bayside library, and I was excited to bestow upon them dozens and dozens of my expendables.

However, on this particular Thursday, I parked fairly far from my office, and in the opposite direction from the library.  No matter- surely I could simply heft the eight oversized bags a few city blocks for drop-off.

So, determined and optimistic, I removed the bags from my trunk and organized them for the aforementioned hefting: four in one hand, three in another, and the largest slung over my right shoulder like a hipster with a backpack.  This must have been, no joke, over a hundred pounds of dead weight.  With a lumbering shuffle-step, I began my trek away from the car.

About a block later, things started to go horribly awry.  With each six-inch step, I became increasingly aware of the constant tug of gravity upon my burdens.  I’m a lawyer, so I’m acutely aware of the importance of law.  Gravity is a law.  I was at risk of gravitational contempt.  I put my bags down, un-slung my shoulder bag, and took a minute to regather my strength.

After that initial rest, the progress almost stopped altogether.  My arms and hands now knew, firsthand, the rush of relief that resulted from such a simple act as Stopping to Rest.  Independent of my will, they undertook to achieve this relief as often as possible, sometimes as often as five steps after the last rest.  One of my coworkers, returning from court, passed by me and honked with a mix of recognition and ridicule.

I was too far from my car to return, and too far from the library to conceive of ever arriving at my destination.

After nearly twenty minutes of maddeningly slow progress, I arrived at my office, approximately halfway to the library.  In a moment of perfect clarity, I realized that I could leave half of the books just inside the door, and make two trips to lighten the burden.

Even with half the load left behind, my overexerted limbs were howling as I made each of two painful, three-block treks from my office to the library.  On the return trip in the middle, my hands and arms were numb.

The actual drop-off was effortless.  The librarian ascertained my purpose, stacked the books on her desk, and offered me a receipt.  I magnanimously declined- unbeknownst to her, I do not itemize my deductions.

One hour after I started my “quick errand” to the library, the task was done.  My limbs still ache, but my trunk is empty.  In the few minutes that have passed since I started this post, feeling has returned to my fingers, so that’s progress.   I will have to remember, upon my return home this evening, to find an ice pack to apply to my bruised ego; it is my sincere hope that this post serves as a personal reminder not to wait six months to make a book donation ever, ever again.

~Andrew

Published in: on January 9, 2014 at 1:08 pm  Leave a Comment  
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A Modest Proposal

How to address Flushing’s malodorous sidewalk mines

When I first moved to New York in February, I was prepared for many aspects of big-city life: higher cost of living, the tremendous quantity of people everywhere you go, and the ubiquitous availability of public transit.  There were a few items, however, that nobody mentioned:  the way New Yorkers never touch handrails on escalators (for good reason!), the profound difference between living in Manhattan and out in “the boroughs,” and the stench of rancid curry trash in the summer sun.

The last of those is hard to describe, and really must be smelled for oneself.  Unlike much of the country, New  Yorkers do not put their garbage into bins or receptacles on trash pick-up day; they leave it in loose bags on the edge of the sidewalk.  Where I live, in Flushing, there is an abundance of Indian cuisine, and consequently many of those black plastic monstrosities are full of curry.

Now, I love curry, but when it has been left out in the sun, it begins to smell, then stink, then present the olfactory equivalent of first-degree assault.  Worse, the trash trucks compress the garbage as they pick it up, and from the sides of those mobile stench-machines flows a steady stream of foul-smelling, green-colored liquid that renders Flushing in need of, well, a flushing.  I apologize for that pun.

In a way, the addition of new, different stinks has the effect of at least varying to some degree the rancid air of the town.  However, the purpose of this proposal is to address a secondary, and most unwelcome, ubiquitous presence on our city streets: dog poop.

It is not a unique feature of New York that so many dog owners simply refuse to pick up after their pets.  In Lexington, I remember a particular zone in our subdivision affectionately-termed “poop island,” since there was a general consensus that this was the place for lazy people to allow their dogs to defecate without incurring the penalty of bending-the-hell-over to clean it up.

But, as they are in many things, New Yorkers are especially audacious.  Large, stinking mounds of dog crap are frequently left in the middle of sidewalks, on jogging trails, and even in crosswalks.    What is especially baffling about this is that Flushing is typically full of people, meaning these owners presumably leave their dog droppings in full sight of onlookers.  The role of social shame has been marginalized to the point of ineffectiveness.

After considerable thought, I believe a common-sense solution to this acute problem is simple, and involves snipers.  Imagine, if you will, a few strategically-placed gunmen on roofs overlooking Kissena park, the residential neighborhoods, and other points of interest in the city.  New York is singularly well-suited for this approach, because of the abundance of tall buildings.

Floating this idea by a few of my friends, one of the surprisingly-few objections I have heard is a general reluctance to kill people for doing something irritating.  Without getting into the distinction between the mild word “irritating” and the more appropriate term “sociopathic,” I would respond that a high body count is not necessary.  It really will only take a handful of casualties before word gets around, and I would imagine the prospect of life-threatening injury might have a more immediate and quantifiable effect than a “fine of up to $100,” which is seldom enforced.

Unfortunately, given the political climate of today’s New York City Council, I doubt they could implement even this common-sense reform to protect our citizens.  However, I find that visualizing this enforcement mechanism is an effective mental exercise, especially when scraping nasty dog crap off one’s jogging shoes.

~Andrew

 

Published in: on July 10, 2013 at 10:31 am  Leave a Comment  
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Refusing to Double Down

Railing against quantity-based incentives in the food service industry

With the exception of a piece about a unique vegan restaurant run by a friend of mine, I don’t tend to write about food.  This is for what I believe is a very good reason: food narratives are boring.  While eating forms a pervasive and often crucial part of our individual lives, anyone having spent countless recreational minutes reviewing photos on their Facebook wall can tell you that our interest level in what other people are eating is, at best, moderate to low.

With that disclaimer/apology out of the way…let me tell you about my lunch today.

By way of background, I am attempting to eat healthier things, in an abstract, non-specific way.  I do not struggle with my weight per se, but have issues with its distribution.  My broad chest has an irritating habit of migrating southward, stopping just about my midsection.  I blame gravity, though cheeseburgers are alleged to have played a role.

To combat this unfortunate migration of mass, I am making a token effort to eat healthier things.  With encouragement from my wife, this includes juicing, which I have on strong authority is now a verb, and keeping healthier foodstuffs in the kitchen.

Since much of New York life involves eating on the run, I am also making a concerted effort to make healthier choices for my lunches.  This involved, at my last job, frequenting a fairly terrific salad spot, though for some reason the green stuff is absurdly expensive.  In the more limited surrounds of Bayside, where my current office is located, the healthy choice often comes down to that perennial low-cost, low-fat alternative, Subway.

Now, I like Subway.  Something about fresh veggies and bread helps me forget about tasty, medium rare patties of deliciousness, covered in cheese.  I often eat there for breakfast, as a flat-bread egg sandwich with a coffee is available for three bucks.  Today, however, I decided to go for lunch, resolved to try something new and under a million calories; when setting goals, the key is to keep them manageable.  My only beef (pun not intended) with East Coast Subway restaurants is the green slime they attempt to pass off as avocados.  Having spent eight years in California, I know avocados, I cooked with avocados, avocados were a friend of mine, and Subway’s green goop is no avocado.

For today’s meal, I settled on an eggplant Parmesan sandwich, which is at least reasonably healthy, provided I skip the white fat-paste in a bottle that tastes so, so delicious.   The problem that led to this erstwhile blog entry arose when I first asked for a six-inch sandwich.

“You know that’s four dollars, and for five you can get a footlong?”  the Sandwich Artist Mo asked me, grabbing a full twelve-inch loaf.

“Can I just have six inches for two-fifty?  Or how about three dollars?” I asked, answered only with a sad, slow head shake.  I assume his detached demeanor was because he is an artist.

Now, I had a difficult decision to make.  I like money, and I do not like wasting it; perhaps we can all agree on the merit of my position in this regard.  However, lunch is a decision based not on dollars alone, but on nutritional content, and a twelve-inch sub sandwich is significantly worse than its six-inch cousin in terms of calories.  One might even infer that it is twice as bad.

So I took a deep breath, swallowed, and went with my gut, over-paying for a six-inch sandwich.

I think it’s terrible for a restaurant chain that at least pays lip service to healthy options to create such a dramatic price incentive for super-sizing one’s entree.  It takes quite enough effort to make healthy choices when eating out without contrived economic penalties for making good nutritional choices.

It would be immensely gratifying to write that I won’t be back to Subway, or at least to THAT Subway, but the reality is that there are woefully few healthier options in the neighborhood, and chances are good that I’ll be back before the week is out.  To paraphrase my favorite Indiana Jones movie, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

So, thanks for bearing with me on an ill-fated journey through my bygone lunch break, and I’ll try to keep it more interesting next go-round.

~Andrew

Published in: on July 8, 2013 at 11:49 am  Leave a Comment  
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