La gloire ne sait point ma demeure ignorée,
Et je chante tout seul ma chanson éplorée,
Qui n'a de charme que pour moi.
- Charles Brugnot, Gaspard de la nuit.
Je m'en fiche de la gloire; mais en tout cas je me noie dans la musique.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Companionable Copy
Normally, interactions between these two parties aren't too cordial, sometimes outright hostile.
I'm talking about the people who hand out copies of rival free newspapers AM New York and Metro every morning at subway entrances and exits, each trying to out-hawk the other and distribute papers to thousands of commuters in transit. I've even heard of fisticuffs occurring between overzealous newsies. I imagine newsprint flying as two people, perhaps middle-aged, grapple and yell in a whirl of thick coats, sturdy shoes and orange vests - vests in which copies of the day's issue are displayed, and are now getting irreversibly crumpled.
It was different this morning as I got off the train and sloshed through the turnstiles. As I climbed stairs and fought to get out my umbrella, I passed an AM NY guy, who was clearly in the middle of a lively conversation with the Metro newsie stationed at the next landing. He threw a comment I couldn't catch over his shoulder in between cries of "AM New York!" and boisterous morning greetings. I did, however, hear the amusing reply as I climbed past the man handing out copies of Metro:
"Oh man, if I had that kind of money, I'd have six or seven kids running around, and I wouldn't even know where some of'em came from!"
Not sure I want to know....but I'll take that over fights during my morning commute.
I'm talking about the people who hand out copies of rival free newspapers AM New York and Metro every morning at subway entrances and exits, each trying to out-hawk the other and distribute papers to thousands of commuters in transit. I've even heard of fisticuffs occurring between overzealous newsies. I imagine newsprint flying as two people, perhaps middle-aged, grapple and yell in a whirl of thick coats, sturdy shoes and orange vests - vests in which copies of the day's issue are displayed, and are now getting irreversibly crumpled.
It was different this morning as I got off the train and sloshed through the turnstiles. As I climbed stairs and fought to get out my umbrella, I passed an AM NY guy, who was clearly in the middle of a lively conversation with the Metro newsie stationed at the next landing. He threw a comment I couldn't catch over his shoulder in between cries of "AM New York!" and boisterous morning greetings. I did, however, hear the amusing reply as I climbed past the man handing out copies of Metro:
"Oh man, if I had that kind of money, I'd have six or seven kids running around, and I wouldn't even know where some of'em came from!"
Not sure I want to know....but I'll take that over fights during my morning commute.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Indigence Monster
"I slept with Lady Gaga last night. Now look where I am."
This was the boast, not of some B-list celebrity or rich socialite, but on the cardboard sign of a man begging for change during lunch hour in the Financial District. He sat, cross-legged in the recessed doorway of a soon-to-be-opened store, in the posture typical of New York beggars in winter: bundled up and hunched over the sign and plastic cup before him.
This is all I can observe of him in the glimpse I have as I, too, hurry by. And I wonder for the umpteenth time where these people sleep, how they survive, and how often a passerby resists the current's flow and the pull of multiple destinations to stop and give some change, or, even rarer, talk with the person. Coward that I am, I don't have these conversations, but I imagine this man's sign would lead to an interesting one.
One thing's for sure, though. He would not be telling me that he was "born this way" to sit on the street risking cold and indifference. No one is.
This was the boast, not of some B-list celebrity or rich socialite, but on the cardboard sign of a man begging for change during lunch hour in the Financial District. He sat, cross-legged in the recessed doorway of a soon-to-be-opened store, in the posture typical of New York beggars in winter: bundled up and hunched over the sign and plastic cup before him.
This is all I can observe of him in the glimpse I have as I, too, hurry by. And I wonder for the umpteenth time where these people sleep, how they survive, and how often a passerby resists the current's flow and the pull of multiple destinations to stop and give some change, or, even rarer, talk with the person. Coward that I am, I don't have these conversations, but I imagine this man's sign would lead to an interesting one.
One thing's for sure, though. He would not be telling me that he was "born this way" to sit on the street risking cold and indifference. No one is.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Carb-14 Freebies
There appears to be a predictable, asymptotic rate of consumption when free food is left among people who share an office or living space, given the unspoken rule that the person who eats the last bit must be the one to clean the mess up.
Consider: a plate of bagels and a knife is left in the office kitchen. On my first few passes by the kitchen, they appeared to be disappearing rapidly, two or three at a time. Then, for awhile, a lone bagel sat on the massive plate. The next time I walked by, someone had taken the top half. Later, the bottom half, too, had been halved. The resemblance to the half-life of radioactive substances was both startling and amusing.
Knowing this rate of carbohydrate "decay", one could theoretically predict the original number of bagels. Except for that pesky tendency of certain humans with low tolerance for messes who'll grumble to themselves and just clean the damn thing up.
Consider: a plate of bagels and a knife is left in the office kitchen. On my first few passes by the kitchen, they appeared to be disappearing rapidly, two or three at a time. Then, for awhile, a lone bagel sat on the massive plate. The next time I walked by, someone had taken the top half. Later, the bottom half, too, had been halved. The resemblance to the half-life of radioactive substances was both startling and amusing.
Knowing this rate of carbohydrate "decay", one could theoretically predict the original number of bagels. Except for that pesky tendency of certain humans with low tolerance for messes who'll grumble to themselves and just clean the damn thing up.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Leavening the Lexicon
Certain words are just too fun to pass up or let die. They're hidden, imprisoned, aquiver with forced inactivity in the dusty tomes of classic literature. They demand to be taken off the shelf and dusted off, set loose among the staid, tech- and pop-culture-heavy parlance of today. It'd be like bringing back Ben Franklin, Aphra Behn, Jane Austen or Leonardo da Vinci and seeing what they'd do with a blog or tweeting....
Here are just some words with which I've decided to spice up my lexicon:
A shot of linguistic champagne straight to the brain. Isn't it the cat's pajama's?
Here are just some words with which I've decided to spice up my lexicon:
A shot of linguistic champagne straight to the brain. Isn't it the cat's pajama's?
Idle Ponderment
A couple of questions that have broken into my idle or distracted moments:
- Regarding Wikileaks' recent publication of secret diplomatic cables - Has anyone else been struck by the strange lexical anachronism of "sending cables" in today's age of texting, Twitter and posts?
- Why do garlic, onions and coffee smell so delicious, yet produce the most foul breath?
- Regarding Wikileaks' recent publication of secret diplomatic cables - Has anyone else been struck by the strange lexical anachronism of "sending cables" in today's age of texting, Twitter and posts?
- Why do garlic, onions and coffee smell so delicious, yet produce the most foul breath?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Occupational Hazards
This, from a description of a U.S. Dept of State job posting:
Translation: You will be far away from your family, your burger-and-fries, and the latest episode of Jersey Shore. You could die. But you'll have a super-cool employer.
*This is not to devalue the work our foreign service officers do under often difficult circumstances, but the dispassionate and distant language in this paragraph just made me laugh.
Many overseas posts are in small or remote countries where harsh climates, health hazards, and other discomforts exist and where American-style amenities frequently are unavailable. Personal security frequently becomes an area of concern, particularly in countries where there is political unrest or terrorist activity. Family members are not permitted at an increasing number of posts. However, careers in the Foreign Service offer special rewards, including the pride and satisfaction of representing the United States and protecting U.S. interests abroad.
Translation: You will be far away from your family, your burger-and-fries, and the latest episode of Jersey Shore. You could die. But you'll have a super-cool employer.
*This is not to devalue the work our foreign service officers do under often difficult circumstances, but the dispassionate and distant language in this paragraph just made me laugh.
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