the sticking point

Wednesday Dispatch

Hi. It feels like January in New York. I don't know what else to tell you.

Actually I do.

• I'm going to try to post something special this Friday. Not quite a Pointcast, but more than just a playlist, it's a bundle of songs inspired by 01.20.09. Let's call it the Obama Sutra.

• Find, Friend me: Search for Tommy Himself on Facebook.

• If you've been reading The Sticking Point long enough, you know I've got issues with the useless, inadequate Forest Hills P.D. Briefly, I live in a neighborhood where drivers race through red lights and stop signs, speed the wrong way down one-way streets, and create a warzone for any pedestrian who ventures past the curb. The local police enforce only those infractions that result in Zero Confrontation: past-due inspection stickers and expired meter parking. When you are lazy, useless, and out-of-shape it is far easier to slip a summons under a windshield wiper than to pull over Live Human Strangers and confront them on their infractions.

Here's a short story. The beginning is true. The ending, however, is creative license -- a writer's embellishment.

Walking back home this morning after some errands, I stopped at a curb and waited for the WALK light. A few feet to my right, a driver approached the intersection and stopped. She had the RED, I got my WALK, and I went. I was a few steps shy of the other curb when I could see in my peripheral vision that the driver began creeping forward and then just pulled right out into the intersection. I turned around and watched her make a left turn against the light... crossing directly in front of a squad car! It took me just five seconds to realized the cops weren't going to do, well, their jobs, so I raised my palms in the air and opened my mouth a bit -- the internationally recognized "What The Fuck?!" gesture. Passenger Cop saw it and we made eye contact. He formed his own "Wuddamye Gonna Do?" expression with fat cheeks and lazy eyes as Driver Cop stepped on the gas and continued their "patrol."

Writer's embellishment:
When the cops drove past me I flipped two middle fingers at them. Sure enough, they pull over to address this personal issue. As I'm refusing to show them my identification, I ask them why they thought my fingers were more of a public threat than the car running the red light. While they struggle for a wiseass response I say, "I have no more time to waste with you fucktards, I have to go." Then I give them the fingers again and moonwalk three entire blocks home.

On iTunes right now: Colors from the album Colors by Ice-T

[posted with ecto]

Dispatches from the Eyeful Tower

Our old pal StereoMic was up early yesterday, documenting what our neighborhood looked like when the rains came.

Here's the view from his balcony. Those cars across the street weren't sideways when the drivers parked them.

And also? When I walked past that white car later in the day, it had a parking violation ticket on the windshield. Must be illegal to have your car swept away by a flood. Know what that is? One of Forest Hills' weak-ass parking cops thinking, "what the fuck? I'll be one ticket closer to my quota, and this will be a bitch for this poor sucker to defend in court."

On that note, I want to mention what I saw out my own living room window this morning. A car pulled out of the parking garage underneath the apartment building across the street, and the driver drove against the one way and jetted through the intersection. My blood boiled. Anyone crossing at that corner would have had no chance. Nobody would have looked in that direction for a car. But this fucker, this sack of rotting shit, whose time is so important to him that he can't follow the most basic rules of the road, puts everyone else's safety in jeopardy to shave 45 seconds off his commute.

I will not forget that car. I live right across the street. I'll see it again. And when I do, I will calmly tell the driver what I've seen him do, and if I ever see him do it again I'll pull him out of that vehicle by his throat.

On iTunes right now: Hirnsäge from the album Kollaps (reissue + bonus) by Einstürzende Neubauten

[posted with ecto]

Welcome to the Show

Jason Giambi is getting so much heat from the gutless wonder, MLB Commissioner Bud Selig. That’s bullshit. Here is the only player who came forward to make any kind of admission of chemical enhancement use, he paid for it with his health, he made apologies, worked his ass off hard enough to be named comeback player of the year, and has recently said that the Game (players, owners, and league management) owed fans an admission that things have been fucked up. All right.

So now Selig wants to make Giambi crawl.

Giambi stepped up and did the right thing. Now, by Selig's order, if he won't give full cooperation to the Mitchell investigation – which I assume means naming names and pointing fingers – Giambi will be suspended. Selig has even said that the level of his participation will be used to determine the severity of Giambi’s punishment.

This smells awful. It’s a lose-lose situation for Giambi, who doesn’t deserve to be in that position (for all the reasons I wrote in the first paragraph). My hunch is that the investigators already have suspicions about certain players, but with little evidence or testimony there is little that can be done. Using a marquee insider like Giambi to play star witness is just a big show.

If Giambi complies (and I don’t think he will), he'll be vilified on the field and in the stands. If he does not, the Mitchell investigation will simply report allegations as facts, while Selig gives Giambi a light enough punishment to make it appear as though he chirped. It’s a classic NYPD Blue Sipowicz move.

I think Selig, being the ball-less turd that he is, would like to see Giambi deliver names in a gift-wrapped box before Bonds gets to #714. Hell, I’d like to see the truth about Bonds come to light, and I personally don’t want to see him break Aaron's record, but putting the squeeze on Jason Giambi because the commissioner won't take a stand for himself, is dirty blackmail.

Postscript: Bud Selig announced last December that he'll be retiring from his post as MLB Commissioner, and floated the name of his choice for next commish. Guess who. Really.

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[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Moons of Jupiter from the album Moons of Jupiter by Scruffy The Cat

Earn More Sessions By Sleeving

1020 Hrs.

I’m listening to the disk of Kraftwerk’s Radio-Aktivat and Computer Welt, the German-language versions that I found last summer. This is good stuff. I had wanted it for so long, and now I hardly listen to it. I will make an effort to get to this more in 2007. That's my trip, I guess, my New Year's resolutions are simpler, and they usually involve books to read or things to learn or music to tackle. The big stuff -- the life-changing, make-myself-a-better-man stuff -- I try to make those my resolve at the start of every week, rather than waiting until 1/1/XX. Hope that doesn't sound pompous or anything. The point I'm trying to make is that my New Year's resolutions probably sound stupid. For instance, this year, in addition to the aforementioned Kraftwerk disks, I'd like to get to know more music from Polly Harvey and Captain Beefheart, listen to more of the Alan Vega solo stuff, and become more conversant in the different style shifts within Coltrane's career.

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NY1 told me this morning that the owner of an antique shop in Manhattan is suing the homeless people who sleep in front of his store for $1,000,000. I didn’t here much else of the story, and didn’t get any editorial slant on it, but this has got to be for show, right? The store owner's complaining that they sleep right in front of his store; they block his window display, warming themselves on the subway grate and urinating onto the sidewalk.

It is my guess that this is just a bloated bluff; he assumes once this gets enough media coverage and creates a stir, some one or some public department will sweep the gang of homeless away from his store, at which point he’ll drop the suit. He’s got to know that he’d be spending more money taking it to court than the cost of getting the homeless persons rooms at an SRO until spring.

I can see the detriment they might be causing his business, but really… he’s taking a huge moral risk here. It looks real bad of course. What if they called his bluff, lawyered up, and made him just another rich guy trying to squeeze money from the poor, or in this case, the indigent? Wow. Can you imagine the daily coverage from that courtroom? Of course, the homeless defendants (it already sounds bad!) would be all cleaned up by their court-appointed lawyers to look even better than the cavemen in those Geico commercials, and they’d get a shitload of deserved sympathy from public, press, and jury. Then at the other table would be the rich business owner, suing the poor sidewalk pisser.

(Wait, if you’re being sued, do you have a right to a court-appointed lawyer? Or is that only for criminal cases?)

I wonder if the antique shop owner knew his lawsuit story would hit during the city’s first week of sub-zero wind chills? Unfortunate timing, dude.

What if this started a whole new trend of downward-class lawsuits? The rich suing the poor all over the court system. Business owners suing the sidewalk homeless, commuters suing subway homeless, the state of Texas suing the forced migrants of Katrina.

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1442 Hrs.

My pals Heidi and Rob were at the gym when I got there. I worked out with them in the cage for a while after my deadlift sets, and then moved on to the other side of the room to work with dumbbells.

As I did my shoulders and back stuff, Heidi and Rob finished up their workout and came over to where I was. We sat on the benches there and talked for about a half hour. Usually – always – I hate sitting around talking at the gym. I won’t do it. But it was them, and I’d finished most of the workout, so I gladly shot the shit for 30 minutes.

When they got up to leave I put my earphones right in to continue my work.

Some woman comes right up to me. I don’t know her, but I see her all the time, so we give each other the hello nod most of the time. But I don’t know her name and we’ve never had more conversation than “Are you still using this?” or shit like that. Today, the moment Heidi and Rob were out of earshot, this stranger comes up and puts her hand on my elbow. I have to take my earphones out to hear what she needs.

“Can I just say something? That guy,” she gestures with her thumb back to Rob and Heidi who are about 30 yards away, waiting for the elevator, “he works out so hard all the time, and he never changes.” I guess she is talking about his physique. Then she sort of makes a who farted face and says, “I can’t stand him. I just have to say. It’s pathetic.”

What?! Throughout all of this, I said nothing. I just stood there with a very confused expression.

Again… what?! Is she only stupid, or is she rude and stupid? She’d seen me working out with him, so she’d also seen me sitting down talking to Rob for a half hour. Did she not compute that we are friends? What kind of an idiot is she? She’s ripping on my friend. (And that’s all I needed to say: He’s my friend. But I didn’t. I was too dumbfounded, and now I regret not giving her back a mouthful of her own shit.)

I thought, who the hell does she think she is, passing judgment on somebody else in the gym? You just don’t do that. But since she opened the valve, I turned around to get a good look: Ridiculous hair -- all poofy. A little extra skin swinging from where triceps ought to be. Dumb dragon tattoo inching across her love handles. Is that a diaper under her spandex pants, or is her ass misshapen?

Thing is, people just don’t get it. They are so into their own shit that they're clueless about what's going on around them. She comes to the gym to do her cardio, lift a lot of light weights many times, and sweat some. And that is right for her, because she probably wants to lose the weight, shrink the ass, and tighten up what’s underneath the flabby stuff. The hair and the bad tattoo can be fixed elsewhere.

But she looks at Rob and sees a guy who’s 6-1, and about 265-275 pounds. He’s big and broad and he’s got a big strong gut. I immediately recognize his as the physique of a powerlifter. Look at any of those World’s Strongest Men competitions on TV. Those guys aren’t bodybuilders. They're not in the gym "working to get a good pump" or to feel some silly "burn."They are training for sheer strength and power. They pick up extremely heavy things and put them down again. To the uninitiated, these dudes might look fat at first glance. To Miss Rude and Ignorant, Rob appears to be accomplishing nothing in the gym.

Well, alright. But I’ve seen him squat 475. For reps.

Annnnyway. I put my earphones back in without saying anything to her, hoping she was embarrassed as fuck for walking up to a relative stranger and badmouthing his friend. The more I hear what people have to say, the more I love the iPod.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Portobello from the album The Lords Of The New Church by Lords Of The New Church

Can I Take It?

Here's an update:

We got our approved I-600 form in the mail this weekend, disproving my long-held belief that "nothing good ever comes on Saturday." This means that the only remaining steps in the adoption of baby W are for the Korean government to send a fax to our adoption agency here in NY giving us travel clearance, our agency to tell us the fax has arrived, and for us to go to Seoul.

This all could happen any day now. Any day. Depending on when we get the clearance, we may be ready to fly within 1-3 days. Good thing we went to IKEA and Buy Buy Baby this past weekend.

S called some airlines this morning, to check prices. She let her mom know the latest travel guesstimate. (We've asked my M.I.L. to travel with us. We'll need her eyes and hands and insights as we bring one child halfway around the world and come back with two.)

Now, my A.D.D.-addled brain (ADDled?) is jumping through every detail of secondary and tertiary importance. (Because the big stuff I leave to the professional: my wife.) Who will move our car on alternate-side parking days while we are away? Which side of the back seat is the baby's car seat going in on? That luggage catalog that's been dog-eared and shuffled around on the end table for three months? It's time to place our order. I hope the new laptop battery arrives soon. Do I own anything with gel in it?

I went to the government's Department of Homeland Security site to pull all the latest info on what we can and cannot bring on the planes, and -- typically -- found it to be no help. The best source for this info is the TSA, which has a very detailed list of what may be carried-on ("toy transformer robots"), what may be checked (flare guns), and what must be left at home ("flares in any form"). This list has more shocking surprises than a Paris Hilton pap smear. It flat-out doesn't make sense.

Knitting needles? Sure, bring them on board! But leave your mouthwash at home, Stinky, fresh breath is too dangerous up in the friendly skies. Here's some of what you can or cannot have your backpack when you stuff it under the seat in front of you:

Bubble bath balls NOT ALLOWED

Cigar Cutters ENJOY YOUR FLIGHT!

Corkscrews ENJOY YOUR FLIGHT!

Right Guard Spring Fresh Gel deodorant NOT ALLOWED

Eyeglass repair tools (including those small screwdrivers) ENJOY YOUR FLIGHT!

Neosporin NOT ALLOWED

Knives NOT ALLOWED

Purell Anti-Bacterial Hand Sanitizer NOT ALLOWED

Nail Clippers ENJOY YOUR FLIGHT! (Great. Can I have back the clippers EWR security took from me in 2002?)

Nail Files ENJOY YOUR FLIGHT! (Never mind the fact that, with a little sharpening, they're every bit as dangerous as the box cutters used on 9/11)

Box Cutters NOT ALLOWED

Personal Lubricants ENJOY YOUR FLIGHT! (The Mile High Club obviously has a powerful lobby.)

Scissors (with pointed blades up to four inches) ENJOY YOUR FLIGHT!

Toothpaste NOT ALLOWED

Corkscrews are OK? Holy shit. I hope I have my knitting needles on me when a terrorist makes for the cockpit door brandishing his corkscrew. A lot of this doesn't make sense to me. I wonder what would happen if I filled a bag with many allowable items from the list -- three cigar cutters, ten scissors, five nail files, five corkscrews, a dozen knitting needles, six eyeglass repair kits, and my tube of Scandinavian personal lube jelly. Would I get on? (Would I get off?)

You can't really blame the airlines for all this nonsense. They're taking their cues on security from the federal government. Besides, the airlines are too busy delaying flights, making sure there's so little Sprite on-board that I can't get a full can, and editing the next boring issue of the in-flight magazine to be certain that the puff piece on Ray Romano doesn't actually cross the line into the informative.

But that's not what I wanted to write about.

I just wanted to tell you all that the Baby W Threat Level has gone from "Any Week Now" to "Any Day Now." Lots to do. Like, if the Department of Homeland Security has figured out how to Google, try to get my name off the Watch List.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Moonshake from the album Future Days by CAN

Boulevard of Broken Bones

The cops here in Forest Hills have no balls. It’s pissing me off. At every intersection, about twice a minute, I see cars speeding past red lights, well after they’ve turned to red. Like, five-Mississippi red. This neighborhood is sick with moving violations. Today, walking home from the gym, I was nearly hit by a car turning a corner. I silently cursed myself for not watching what I was doing, but wondered how I could have missed seeing that car sooner. Here’s how: it was going the wrong way down a one-way. Must have pulled out of the garage under the apartment building, and the driver didn’t want to waste his precious time making a left and three rights to go around the block. So he sped the wrong way down the street and just swerved around this stupid bastard who didn’t think to look that way before he crossed.

And here’s why I think the cops around here are ball-less pieces of shit: They see it all and they do nothing. Wait. Check that. They actually do take action. They walk and drive their beats along Queens Boulevard, Yellowstone Boulevard, and Austin Street writing out bundles of tickets for parking violations and expired inspection stickers. Fucked priorities, I reckon.

Walking along the street and writing up tickets for parked cars is easy. Fish in a barrel. With no driver around, there’s no one to question you, no one to raise any contention. But pulling over a driver who’s past a red light at 65 m.p.h. in a 40, pulls out a one-way street, or throws it in reverse to race down an entire block to grab that parking space… that takes nerve. The cop would have to come face to face with a living being. There might be confrontation. There might even be an argument. Hell, the driver might even have a criminal record!

What a fucking insult to the community this is. I’ve read the newspapers and seen the stories on the news; I know the neighborhood where I live has a weird confluence dangerous roads. (Go Google “Queens Boulevard of Death.” Go ahead. I’ll wait.) I know that before I move away I will see some people die on these streets. And I know they won’t be killed by parked cars.

The next time I see a cop ticketing empty cars while tires screech around him or her, I have to say something.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Say Mama from the album Rebel Heart by Vincent, Gene

And Another Thing...

Think ESPN gives a shit about sports fans or the sports it covers? Think again. If tonight's Sox-Tribe game had been played when it should have been played -- at 2pm central time, it wouldn't be in the middle of a 2+ hour rain delay right now. What a fucking joke: rain aside, it's April in Chicago, why wasn't this an afternoon game anyway?!

Thanks, ESPN. Thanks for forcing MLB start times to get the biggest bang on the advertising buck. All those White Sox fans who paid a bundle for opening day tickets the minute they went on sale, to be there when their team plays its first game as World Champions can just go home and scratch their asses until the makeup. And a few million baseball fans who look forward to this day for months can wait longer.

Monday Morning Update: Well, they played it out, which diminishes some of what I wrote above. But still.

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[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: “Burning” from the album 13 Songs by Fugazi 

Loco del Calor

I've been listening to the David lee Roth show now and then, and I was listening yesterday when he revealed all the nonsense he's hearing from WFNY station manager Tom Chiusano and programming VP Mark Chernoff. It's some pretty ridiculous stuff, but a nice glimpse into the inner workings of why radio sucks so mightily.

Among management's directives are that Roth not take phone calls from foreigners or people in other countries (who are listening online). Chiusano has told Roth that if women call in, it's OK, but to try not to “engage” them. The bosses keep reminding him that he does a show for middle-aged white guys, and between-the-lines their rules seem to say: dumb it down.

The Roth show is no Lou Dobbs Tonight, but I've been enjoying it because DLR brings up interesting topics and opens the phones for some smart discussion. He's well-informed and the show can get pretty informative. It's been a great place to hear a sharp dialogue. Obviously, there's no place on NY morning radio for this! To know exactly what his bosses want (if not an outright H Stern copy), all you've got to do is listen to the promos for the other shows that air on WFNY throughout the day. All the rest of their shows boil down to the same basic format:
Two announcers; one guy with a regular name and one with a nickname. Maybe something like “Tony and the Weasel” or “Joe and Dizzy Man.” There are sound effects -- horns, farts, porn moans -- whatever; 'cause these guys are wild, baby! In the promos, they always play a short clip of “What you missed yesterday on the Sal and Butterbean Show!” In the clip, we listeners catch the nicknamed guy in mid-sentence...

Butterbean: ...so, I mean, come on, really. Really. No listen listen listen! That's why I allllllllways say -- the only good cheerleader is a dead cheerleader! Am I right?! Unless... you know... her pom poms are on the floor next to my bed! Ha HA!!

<cue zany sound effect>

Sal: Wha-ho! Come ON!

That's the kind of brainless, socially retarded shit they WANT on their station. David Lee Roth is not a radio guy, but he's learning as he goes. He's entertaining, self-effacing, honest, and the open dialogue on the show (plus those cool music beds) is more than worth your listening time every morning.

Read more here.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: “The Unheard Music” from the album Live At The Whiskey A Go-Go On The Fabulous Sunset Strip by X

Jackson

“That's the story of my life

That's the difference between wrong and right

But Billy said 'both those words are dead'

That's the story of my life.”

--- Velvet Underground, lyrics by Lou Reed

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This morning my wife opened a certified letter from our new landlord saying that we have one week to get rid of our family dog or an eviction process will begin.

This is heartbreaking.

Jackson has been part of our family since December 2001. Loving him, and the unconditional love he gave back, has gotten S and I through some really harsh and heavy times. His temperament is amazing, he gets along with other dogs, and loves people. He's wonderful with our son. (They've been sharing their play space since the baby was six months old.) He's been the perfect pet, and I always dreamt that he'd be our boy's best friend for years.

Our new apartment building has a No Pets policy. We knew this when we signed the lease last month. We also knew that there were an estimated 25 dogs already in the building. Residents we spoke to told us they've never been bothered about their pets. My wife and I thought it was an un-enforced, look-the-other-way rule. (Sort of like when the agent at the management company said the landlord didn't want a dishwasher installed, but what you do on your own -- no one has to know about it. Wink wink.)

He's a quiet dog, well-trained. All he needs is some food and a warm pillow to sleep upon. He likes to play, but he's just as satisfied watching the three of us play.

Last Friday, when S took him out for his morning walk, they bumped into the Superintendent, who reminded my wife about the no pets rule. He told her to think about what we were going to do with the dog. Then he added that he was sending a pair of workers up to our place to install child safety window-gates and replace our sink.

Within hours (we know now) the Super contacted the landlord and told him we had a dog, and the certified letter went out post-haste. We were dreadfully wrong to think we'd safely skate by like everyone else in the building, and I feel such a load of guilt about this. My poor, sweet dog. But on the other hand, why us? With so many dogs in the building, why would they select us to make an example of? It seems unfair.

S spoke to the Super again this afternoon, and he told her he's new, and didn't want to get in trouble for allowing dogs, like the previous Super did.

And now.

The BoyDog who brings our family so much happiness and is such a loving companion for our toddler... must go.

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I've been reaching out to friends all day. Looking for advice, help. I just don't know how to get my brain -- or my heart -- around this.

Woof! There it is!

There is so much wrong with this:

Charges Against Teen Upgraded After Dog He Allegedly Raped Dies

(Thanks to Doctor Jones for the link.)

I'll list a few.

1. Why is the fact that this boy raped two neighborhood girls mentioned once and then never referenced again? I realize that this is a perverse twist on the old “man bites dog” story that newsrooms pine for, but some further reporting on the harm done to the 3- and 13-year old girls might have been added.

2. That picture of the dog/victim is, more than a little weird in this context. I don't know what I'm looking at here. Since they never print photos of human rape victims, I find myself looking into Princess's eyes and thinking, “wow... that dog got raped.”

3. The following eyewitness quote: “...he was doing sexual activity with the dog like a man would do to a woman.” This hardly describes what was happening. Plus... no he wasn't! He was fucking a dog!

4. The boy was fucking a dog.

5. And also? What kind of educationally stunted dipshit says “doing sexual activity”?

6. The accused attacker is not just a sick young man, he's also very very ugly.

7. The editorial choice that was made by including the information that the dog's “bottom was swollen sore.” Come on. This is a serious story; don't try to titillate me.

8. In the days prior to her death, says the Jones family, Princess wouldn't eat or play anymore. Well, apart from the painful internal bleeding, maybe the dog just didn't feel like being raped anymore.

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I showed this article to a writer friend, who was equally appalled. After a minute, he asked, “Was it a girl dog?”

Of course it was! That kid is a child rapist and dog fucker. He's not gay!