Thursday, March 29, 2007

The 6:47 Meander or Trying to Find Chinatown




Sometimes a friend will ask- "call me when you get home from work". I will say OK, and they ask- "When do you leave?"
Sixish. But in Spring, getting home means it may be very late indeed when I get home. Because the road home is never a straight line when I walk. It's a meander.

When I was a kid I read "Family Circus", by Bill Keene- a comic syndicated to the Staten Island Advance. In it the mom or dad would send a child to do something simple, like "get the newspaper" and then the comic would show a dotted line that swirled around all the diversions in between turning and spinning on itself.

My walks are like that. I like to take different paths. I have lived in NY all my life, but it's not a painting- more like an etch-a-sketch, and it is constantly changing-not just shops and street construction. Twilight can turn a simple coffee shop into a cafe Paris would be proud of. A little snow in late March turns a side street into a skating rink. One night I watched a couple on lower Broadway dancing as a little flurry of snowflakes fell twinkling around them catching the light from the street lamps, the only music was playing in their heads, as if there was no one there. I felt like a guest in a snow globe.

I take these walks alone- making notes in my head, sampling the different air- at Hudson and Varick, the smell of tempering chocolate from Jacques Torres, the smell of the river-briny and salty. Once in Chinatown on a back street in late August I met a smell so awful it could safely be referred to as an apocalypse. I was truly assaulted that night, nasally speaking, and it was a very long time before I could look at a shrimp shell much less consume fish.



Sometimes I will walk past Bengal Curry- not QUITE past. I will often (ok always) stop and buy 2 vegetable samosas from Mr. Patel. An incredible dinner bargain at $2.50 for the pair. He will ask me if I was hot sauce or sweet- I say sweet and he will say (every time) "I thought the pretty girls prefer it being hot!" and laughs while simultaneously being a little embarrassed at speaking so boldly. Bengal Curry has a very devoted following among cab drivers, I think I may just be a nice change for him from cranky Pakistani drivers coming off a double 12 hour shift. I have a good friend who is not familiar with Indian food, how would I describe a samosa... I think I would say- it is like a knish- that went on vacation and got deep fried with peas. Certainly not a great explanation... I think it would be worth it to share half my dinner with him sometime. Or perhaps let him buy his own.



Sometimes I start the walk feeling tense or sad or lonely. But as I walk the city takes over- a poster, a person, a street musician or the man in Chinatown who sells 20 tiny cakes for $1.00 that he bakes on a little griddle while you watch. Pick a street and any moment- there is more life there- than what passes in a week almost anywhere else. The world is wider- the city whispers that there is just too much to see to be bored, too many amazing people and too many possibilities for anything to happen- to be lonely or tense. You just breathe in the air, and take it in. Except maybe in Chinatown, in August. Trust me on this one.



:) X

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Art + Adhesives





As I mentioned earlier in the week, I love street art. There is an amazing small world clinging to stop signs and garage walls and walk/don't walk poles. They are the heiroglyphs of our culture, ok, SOME cultures. This has led to a very, very disturbing realization for me. I need a separate blog for these. This was the result of only one night's exploring.















Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Pearl of Great Price - Memories of the Old Bat



The photo above is a place holder. I will find a photo to show you what she really looked like, I promise.

This is for Miriam, and Syd, and Julie and your children. You guys are all busy with your kids and I know, you'd write this if you had time. This is for all of us- to remember what she was like. Please add your memories here- she'd love it that we could all get together like this.

It's almost Passover. Passover makes me think of Camp Ella Fohs. And kichel. And Pearl.

Her name was Pearl Agatha Morris Smith. We met her at camp in the early summer of 1989. Camp Ella Fohs was a camp that was actually 2 camps- one for children and across the Lake-a camp for senior citizens. That summer we all came up before the children- Miriam and Julie shared a room and I was cohabiting like mad with the man that eventually married. Syd rated a private room as the high priestess of the waterfront- the privilege of royalty being a modicum of privacy in which to enjoy a summer long case of sun poisoning. I first encountered Pearl in the social hall. In a sea of elderly slow moving Eastern European seniors, Pearl was a honey-hued force of nature, universally referred to by the attendees of Ella Fohs as "the colored girl".

Pearl did a lot of things at camp- the only thing she didn't do well was blend. Though she was 72 that year she was not a camper... she attended sick call in the morning, dressing wounds dispensing aspirin and advice and a willing ear. To the refugees from the Grand Concourse there was no better tonic than a listener- she cured most ills with a gentle but firm attitude that they all should be glad they were there, and if they woke that morning- it was a good day. And she made them all smile. She tended the canteen when Nettie was taking a break, but whether it was a dance class, taught by Miriam, or sing along with Julie or aerobics in a chair, my own speciality- she attended. Some days I wondered if Pearl was twins. She was never ill and always eager for what the day brought.

But the work days were not the best ones. The best days were Saturday when we had the day off. The very best Saturdays were with Pearl. We would all squeeze into Paul's '72 Dodge Dart in search of Pearl's hobby. Armed with the local paper, The New Milford Times, we would search the local activities- auctions, car washes, tag sales, chili cook-offs and bake sales. We were looking for firemen. Pearl loved them. I do not recall eating any chili but I do remember having to drag Pearl away from a pile of firemen boots at one cook-off. She said with all those boots, if she climbed into them, a fireman would have to take her home. The big auction at the New Milford Firehouse was the highlight of her 4th of July. She bought more than one hideous horsehair stuffed chair or settee. The larger the piece the better- it took more firemen to deliver them. She owned that it was worth the dollar or three it would cost just to watch them carry it back to camp for her. More than once I saw her feign a passing "weak spell" to grasp a brawny bicep. The firemen saw a little old lady- we saw right through her and hurt ourselves laughing behind our hands as she glowed at their attentions. Her crowning achievement was the day Miriam bought a poisonous gray Victorian armchair for a dollar and convinced three firemen to carry it up to camp, with Pearl in it. She looked like the Queen of Sheba that day. We only found out later the chair had 3 springs sticking out of the seat- Pearl claimed it a most comfortable ride- she hadn't felt a thing.

After camp ended we still saw Pearl. Gathering in Manhattan we all took a trip to the San Gennaro festival where the guess your weight man lost a few days pay guessing Pearl's age a full 3 decades off. Driving in lower Manhattan Pearl made Paul swerve to the curb so she could get a better look at the ladies plying their wares in front of Bowery SRO's. She asked several times if we were CERTAIN these scantily clad damsels were actually prostitutes. Seeing things as she did she proposed they were dressed up, or down as it were, in case a fireman showed up. We didn't argue. It never worked. It was her stubborn and persistent view that the world and everyone in it was good- and that she was the same age as we were and able to run with us that earned her the moniker "the old bat". For all the years I knew her, every birthday card, Christmas card, Easter card and letter was signed "love, the old bat"

Two years later when her first grandchild Imanni was born we attended the baptism. We roared to see her holding the baby- a big girl at over 20 lbs who wore a pillowcase as a baptismal dress. Pearl at 5'7" never weighed more than 100 lbs and always looked as if a stiff breeze would blow her away. She stood straight and tall that day, her face filled with love for her new grandchild. It was that day we discovered there was a Mr. Smith. They did not live together as Pearl said, "one day I moved to a new apartment and he just didn't match the furniture." Divorce was not something recognized by Pearl's generation but neither was a life lived on anyone else's terms. Even though they lived apart, when Mr. Smith passed Pearl traveled over 200 miles down south by bus to inform his mother in a nursing home. We asked why she did not call instead. Pearl looked at us as if we were insane. That was not the way things were done. Not if you were Pearl.

Over the next years there were so many occasions- Pearl introduced me to volunteering at Harlem Hospital and taught me to hold babies born addicted to crack, swaddling them and cooing to them as they shook and cried. I was frustrated- there seemed so little that could be done, that I could not stop the crying. "It's alright if they cry", she'd say," with us here they don't cry alone." She danced at my wedding, and at Miriam's, replacing the grandparents we no longer had, and being so much more.

As the years went on we talked every few months by phone. She would visit me at my bake shop and I was always sure to keep a supply of her favorite onion rolls. She loved them smothered in cream cheese, sighing and moaning so loudly as she ate people would walk in from the street to see if she was ill. She would smile and point to her sandwich and then sell them baked goods- I never paid a better salesperson. She would try to pay- and when I refused she would drop money on the floor and point to it and try to convince my counterperson someone else had dropped it- once again playing the dottering old lady- but I had warned them to her tricks and she would always leave with a bag of rolls and most times I could convince her not to pay, or so I'd think- she slipped the cash to my salesperson with the admonition not to tell me until she had made good her escape. She won more than I did. My Old Bat.

The last time I saw Pearl it was January of 2002. She travelled with me to Long Island to witness the naming of Miriam's fourth child. Pearl had a hunger fit on the train- despite repeatedly being asked if she wanted something to eat while IN Penn Station, Pearl got hungry at Jamaica, blaming a poster on the train of a tasty looking pork chop, which she was threatening to lick by the time we got to Syosset. I called Miriam and we were met at the train with "a little something" to tide her over until supper.

It was a big day for all of us. Julie was there, and me, and Miriam- Syd was in Chicago but we filled her in by phone. As she sat holding the baby and welcoming her to the world and telling her how special she would be, all I could see was her light being passed onto yet one more generation. The baby's name? Rosaline Pearl.

We kept on with the telephone calls- every baby, job promotion and divorce- I filled her in. Often she would ask about Paul- and I would remind her we had been divorced over ten years- "But we still love him don't we?" and we did. When Julie married her partner Heather I called Pearl- "Heather.. is she nice?" yes, very nice "Is she Jewish?" yes Pearl, she's Jewish.
"Then that's good isn't it" she said, with great satisfaction. We were her children- she was happy when we were. And she loved us. Nothing else mattered.

Into her 90's Pearl worked 3 days a week as a receptionist at her church, read to the blind and visited the elderly in nursing homes. She lived in her apartment on 125th Street and Lenox until at 94 she broke a rib opening a window. She moved to her daughter's home in Poughkeepsie. When we talked on the phone she would gripe about the pettiness at the senior center with the big decision of the day being whether or not to have sprinkles on the doughnuts the following day. "Don't these people have BETTER things to do?" she'd mutter. And then ask about the goings on in the worlds of us- her children. My grumpy old bat.

I let more time go by than usual, sent cards but did not call- no one had a life event I could report and, maybe the past few phone calls, the repeated questions, the new quaver in her voice, told me what I did not want to face. In January I got a letter from Ben Eilbott, our camp director. Pearl had passed in the summer. The family did not contact her camp friends- for whatever reason, we had not been there to eulogize her.

At first I was angry- that we were denied witness to her passing. I called Miriam, asked her to call Julie, and then called Syd. Then I sat on my porch looking at the winter sunlight and feeling the warmth through the chill in the air. In the sunlight I realized- Pearl was not about funerals and passing death. I still talk to her- when Julie and Heather adopted Ashley, when Miriam's son was bar mitzvahed-whenever a good thing happens- I still tell her. She's my old bat and she's still here. We are her testament- her legacy, and the living proof. If I am to live up to that I have to remember-I woke up this morning, I'm alive,- and it's a good day.


:) X

Monday, March 26, 2007

The New Wall Dogs



from "Ghost Signs" Coca Cola Sign approx. 1907-1910


The term "wall dog" referred to the men who created painted advertising signs on the sides of buildings up until the early 70's and disappeared as digital technology and space-age plastics made enormous signs easier to print enormous pieces for display outdoors. The art of the wall dogs can still be seen as ghosts on the sides of buildings in great cities and small towns. Beautiful half images that remind us when Coke was 5 cents or Gus was the guy who fixed your car.

Walking downtown tonight I looked for my favorite street art- with the advent of marker proof paints and the ongoing blight of gentrification on my beloved graffiti, the artists have adapted, first with stickers of all sorts directing the viewer to a website, and occasionally encouraging the viewer to peel and steal the art (it can't be just me who does this...) Tonight I found- four and five foot art stickers on the walls around Soho- they look like this:







Sunday, March 25, 2007

Anthems for the Ancients








It seems to me a crime that we should age
These fragile times should never slip us by
A time you never can or shall erase
As friends together watch their childhood fly


The other night I was coming home in a cab. Work in my briefcase. Tired. Cranky. A little crushed by life, work and the weight of 4o some winters. As I slumped back in the seat I heard the first chords... and that sweet guitar. "If I leave here tomorrow...
would you still remember me..."

I remember 17. And the backroads to the beach at Wolf's Pond Park- watching the sun come up long, long past curfew and not caring. In the back seat of a '72 GTO snugged up under an old leather jacket with a high school boy too far in the past to have a name. The early summer air filtering through the windows and the full realm of possibilities drifting over me.

These songs- these anthems- you have them. From the days of liner notes and albums. The song that now comes on the oldies station (dear god the OLDIES station). But the amazing thing is they do not make you feel old- they make you remember- and feel- how good young felt. How good then felt. And though I am certain while hearing that song, that morning- on the GTO's 8 track player, that I was in a MESS of trouble. I smile. And it's still that good.

You have a song- you know what it is- find it- dig it out or download it. Forget Viagra or the dry martini ... this is it. Play it and you'll know what I mean.

:) X

Brooklyn Bob



BOB does the 2 train



BOB finds the Global Feminism show is a great place to pick up Chic-lets



BOB walks like an Egyptian



No "electronic devices" were allowed into the "Dinner Party" but BOB shoots one from the hip



BOB "blends" with the art



BOB has his own "Dinner Party" (But thinks his rendition might not quite agree with Ms. Chicago's)

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Velveeta Fudge rides again



It was Friday and on Fridays I read the Wall Street Journal. It's their fluffiest day of the week- a guarantee of a little diversion from the war, descending housing starts and the fate of the Nikkei. And there it was- the perfect diversion. A story on the success of amateur cookbooks- books put together of real "home-cooking". The kind of things most of us born in the time when watching fat meant making sure the Fry Daddy didn't boil over, were raised on. Tuna Noodle Casserole. Turkey Tetrazzini. Nilla Wafer Banana Pudding. Tomato Soup Cake. These cookbooks feature recipes like Potluck Weiner Bake and Cheery Cheese Balls. These are the kinds of recipes my grandmother would have referred to as "fancy-schmancy". Many of them feature one of 2 Universal Binding Ingredients- Campbells Soup (Cream of Mushroom, Cream of Celery or in the case of the cake, Tomato) or Velveeta.

I took a look online. Velveeta has a MAJOR following. A page on Myspace. Spawned bands like Velveeta Jones and The Velveeta Underground. Even poetry:

We don't know how it was done,
'cause Velveeta doesn't spoil. (Not even in the sun!)
Those folks at Kraft are clever, they've really got it made
with cheese that doesn't ... biodegrade.

One woman went online because her problem was she had received a gift (what the occasion was I have no idea perhaps National Lactose Intolerance Day? Eat Something Orange Week? ) of 30 lbs of Velveeta- she wanted to know if she could freeze it.

"If it is still in its original vacuum packed packages, it does not need refrigeration. It NEVER dies. If you notice on grocery store shelves it is with the Parmesan and unrefrigerated cheese products."

I can't imagine why the catch phrase "the cheese that never dies" was never picked up by Kraft- it's a winner.

There is even a story - The Velveeta Rabbit ... ok STOP GROANING- here is an excerpt (for the whole sticky mess go to http://tsa.transform.to/misc/velveetarabbit.html)

"I am the kitchen magic Cow," she said. "I take care of all the dairy products that the children have loved. Needless to say, this is the first job I've ever had. But I take them away and turn them Real."

"Wasn't I Real cheese before?" asked the little Rabbit.

"You were Real to the Boy," the Cow said, "and Real Disgusting to everyone else



Then there was something I'd read about in the WSJ that I had once at summer camp. Velveeta Fudge. Brillat Savarin said "hunger is the best sauce." He must have attended a Jewish summer camp. Eight weeks of food that began life in really big tins and just got worse. And it was kosher, too. NOT a good combination. We were starved. Kind of. The canteen didn't open until after dinner.


Velveeta Fudge

1/2 lb. Velveeta cheese

1/2 lb. margarine

Melt cheese and margarine in Micro Wave ( not the highest setting). Make sure it is melted...

SIFT:

2 lbs. powered sugar

1/2 Cup Cocoa powder

Pour the cheese/margarine over the sifted ingredients and stir, stir, stir

ADD:

1 Tbs. Vanilla

1 Cup walnuts...I add more nuts

POUR: onto greased cookie sheet and cool. Cut into squares and freeze!

The WSJ got a bit prissy after mentioning this recipe. Citing that most of these home cook recipes were "more home-style than haute" and "bad for you, high in sodium and overly reliant on processed foods". But I remember these meals and the fact that one dish meant my mom could sit outside with her friends and watch us roller skate back and forth in front of our house until it got too dark. I don't really remember the cooking- I do not have memories that begin with "remember when Mother sauteed the medallions of veal and served them with a balsamic reduction?" But I still have a little scar on my knee from when I tried to skate like an ice skater on one roller skate showing off for my mom. The move was not quite as spectacular as I envisioned. But she was there to see it, my dad too, because there weren't a lot of dishes to do- it was Tuna Croquettes Night.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

It's Something That We Do



Venus paint on silk by Carole Bonicelli from Art.Rage.Us Art and Writing by Women with Breast Cancer Book- proceeds going to The Breast Cancer Fund, can be ordered directly from The Breast Cancer Fund http://www.breastcancerfund.org

Love is certain, love is kind
Love is yours and love is mine
But it isnt something that we find
Its something that we do
Its holding tight, lettin go
Its flying high and laying low
Let your strongest feelings show
And your weakness, too
Its a little and a lot to ask
An endless and a welcome task
Love isnt something that we have
Its something that we do
We help to make each other all that we can be
Though we can find our strength and inspiration independently

I can see that picture in my head
Love isnt just those words we said
Its something that we do
Theres no request too big or small
We give ourselves, we give our all
Love isnt someplace that we fall
Its something that we do


"Something That We Do" by Clint Black

Things come in threes for me- does that happen to you?

I got an e-mail today requesting that I sign a petition to demand that government require medical insurers allow a 2 day hospital stay after mastectomy surgery. There's a bill called the Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act which
will require insurance companies to cover a minimum 48-hour hospital stay for patients undergoing a mastectomy. It's about eliminating the"drive-through mastectomy" where women are forced to go home just a few hours after surgery, against the wishes of their doctor, still groggy from anesthesia and sometimes with drainage tubes still attached. The link to do so (and you only need to give minimal info to sign). www.lifetimetv.com/health/breast_mastectomy_pledge.html
It'll only take a minute and - you can visit BOB later :).

But this was the second hit- the first was a close friend bravely going through her second lumpectomy and chemo treatments. Her second- and busily getting through it by taking care of EVERYONE else around her. I have no words here, only awe and a dedication to praying for her every night, and making chicken soup when she needs it.

The THIRD hit came from a total stranger. As a matter of fact, they do not get much stranger. I get all the requests for donations that come through our stores- usually its a pre-school auction or a benefit and I do what I can- we get asked a lot and too often I have to say no. But on this day there was no saying no- or saying ANYTHING. I had met the whirlwind- ever try and talk in a tornado? This was the experience of speaking with Antonieta D'Addio. If you think it is hard to pronounce- imagine it being pronounced and spelled with NO BREATH WHATSOEVER. Antonieta just started talking- she was collecting money for a fundraiser for a cancer hospital in Putnam, CT. There are details, lots of them- I missed them. All I heard was passion, drive and endless enthusiasm. And to the best of my reckoning she still had not breathed once. I promised a gift certificate, not knowing if I could even get it approved- there was no saying no- and when I hung up, I was smiling- really wide. You rarely meet with someone this driven. But wait, there's more.

It was not enough that Antonieta wanted the gift certificate, she was coming from Philly to get it. And somehow we wound up talking. The similarities were amazing- we both grew up on Staten Island. Her family Italian, mine Jewish (both of us agreed the difference there was negligible). She and I went to high school a few miles from each other and even candy striped at the same hospital. We discovered we are 6 months apart in age and both single. Neither of us are close with our families and tend to get along better with our date's parents than the men themselves. And we kept talking... and there were amazing similarities. Then I asked Antonieta (and the shortening of her name is equally unpronounceable... I tried) what she did for a living. She works in oncology research at a hospital in Philly, and lives in a little house in a rough neighborhood.


We talked a bit longer. And I saw her off. I thought about how you can get through a day knowing that at the end of it, lots of people still die. How could she spend every spare moment and dollar she had on something that slapped her in the face every day and said- you can't win. This eats every one of them alive. Children, young women, parents...everyone. But in doing her work- she cares for the sick, but never gives up hope. And I cannot imagine how healing and uplifting her presence must be to someone who is in the end stages of this awful disease and to their families. Later that night I heard the song referenced at the beginning of the post, and it became apparent that Love isn't something that we find or have or say, it's something- that special people, like Antonieta, and like you, who just signed that petition (didn't you?) Love is something that we do.

:) X

Putting Paper on the Map... or the other way around




At the continuing-to-be-anonymous paper emporium I received this e-mail through our website from Mike James at Wesleyan University:

I'm printing my undergraduate thesis in early April. I didn't see anything on the site, but I wonder if you have any recommendations for where I can purchase great laser-printer compatible paper - ideally, I want acid-free and recycled paper that isn't made by children. Any thoughts?

I get about 1 call or e-mail a day from folks looking for recycled products (I am told there are even more inquiries coming in from people who just walk in, especially for printing wedding invitations)- I even got a call from Life and Style Weekly, (a magazine that thinks a humanitarian gesture is publishing a map of the exact location of all Drew Barrymore's tattoos and piercings) they were interested in what eco-friendly products were being sold at the shop.

Ummmm. Not a whole lot... When I produced our company's catalog for the holidays I was really excited to find that our catalog had been produced using paper made from certified sustainable forests,that soy inks had been used and offsets for the energy were purchased to fund wind farms somewhere in California. BUT- I'd love to say we did it on purpose- we didn't, we lucked into it but it made me, and a lot of the folks I work with feel good about the catalog we gave out this year. Oh, and not that we imagined anyone would throw out our work-of-art catalog, but if they did- it was 100% recyclable- except for maybe the staple holding our little book together.

The GREAT news is that a large number of our vendors are leaping onto the eco-friendly bandwagon and taking us along for the ride. Our biggest supplier of gift bags and boxes (HUGE company that supplies a lot of corporations, including the Body Shop with packaging) is going to be offering bamboo-based paper products printed in soy inks. As I have said on Jillian's blog- (www.paperforager.wordpress.com), corporations may not all have a sense of environmental responsibility, but at least in retail, they WILL come along if there is a profit to be had. Ultimately we have the success of companies like Whole Foods and Patagonia and a lot of perhaps, less conscientious companies following suit in the chase for the consumer dollar. No matter WHY they do it- the environment wins- and people like Mike James get nice child-free paper, hopefully in several colors.

BUT- I actually wanted to turn folks on to something cool in the recycled world not YET carried by the anonymous paper store that employs me (I'll push for it here but sometimes getting things arranged takes awhile). There is an innovative company that I read about in Ode magazine (GREAT mag- "for intelligent optimists" who doesn't want to be counted in that group? www.odemagazine.com- go subscribe!) It is called Direkt Recycling (www.direktrecycling.com) They make envelopes (big and small) shopping bags, file folders and note pads out of second hand paper, outdated maps, calendars and printed materials with a few flaws. The idea is- instead of crushing used paper, mixing it with fresh wood fibers, bleaching it and infusing it with binding agents, Direktrecycling refashions discarded papers (as the name implies) directly into all kinds of useful STUFF...It is estimated that 5-10% of waste paper is suitable for direct recycling. Compared to an envelope made from recycled paper, these envelopes save 100% on water, bleach, binding agents and wood fibers, and uses 95% less energy.

So while you can't get them at the nameless paper emporium just yet, I found them online at http://www.startmotions.com/Eco-friendlyCatalog.html . They also have the greatest looking eco-friendly cards, and when you go for the custom card set- it comes with the Direkt recycling envelopes! This site is also interesting in that it supports an eco-friendly animation studio- but you will see when you look at the site.

There WAS one card image I could not resist- it seems when a dung beetle loves another dung beetle... a lump of poo is considered the appropriate expression of said affection. This card, from Start Motion's collection...appealed to me.



I am certainly referencing poop somewhat more often than I might have imagined...I will have to ask Dr. Jeff what this might mean...

:) X

BOB Celebrates the Equinox



But fails to see what the "balancing" fuss is...

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

From the Brilliant Minds of the NYC Board of Travel, Tourism and Self Deprecating Humor

It seems NYC is launching a multi-million dollar marketing campaign to encourage international tourism. This is an advance look at some of the ads, tailored to local populations and translated into English. These are all REAL ads- or so says NY Magazine.

For Singapore:




For Italy:


And finally, for those hot-blooded Venezuelans (and one or two MILLION NY'ers):

Monday, March 19, 2007

Make Mine Water.... World Water Day March 22nd



I never drink water because of the disgusting things that fish do in it.
W. C. Fields


I was thumbing through NY Magazine's Best of NY issue looking for mention of the nameless paper store (Nope, nothin' oh well) When I came across a gorgeous essay on water by George Saunders

"Water thinks it's so GREAT. Water thinks its "all that." Floods, bloating, drowning, water on the brain; all of these I lay at the feet of water. When a toddler gets knocked down by a wave at the beach; when a gentle fat man carrying a bouquet slips on some ice, what is that liquid tinkling laughter you hear?

Water. "
(the full text of this WONDERFUL piece of writing is no place else online that I can find- so I will type it in at the end of this entry)

This lovely piece of writing was actually a plug for www.tapproject.org- a UNICEF project for World Water Day, March 22nd. On that day you can visit a specific group of restaurants in NY, order a glass of water and it will be contributed to projects that get clean water places where it does not seem to be.

From the www.tapproject.org website:

NEW YORK TAP
New York tap water is an engineering miracle. The system, completed in 1915, uses a daily supply of 1.3 billion gallons of water from pristine upstate reservoirs, the largest unfiltered supply in the world.
Tap water is more stringently monitored and more tightly regulated than bottled water. New York City tap water, for example, was tested 430,600 times during 2004 alone.

WATER FACTS

Over 21 percent of children living in developing countries do not have access to clean water. That’s more than one billion people, or one in five children.
80 percent of all illness and infant mortality is due to waterborne disease. Lack of clean water is the second largest killer of children under five.

A LITTLE GOES A LONG WAY
With $1, UNICEF can provide 40 liters of safe drinking water, which is enough to give one child safe drinking water for 40 days, or forty children safe drinking water for one day.


I run the sink, like mad. I take really long showers and flush the toilet much more than is necessary. And I don't really think about water- this made me do so. Maybe you will too. You do not need to live in NY to participate- you folks in Alaska, Chicago and California and, and... there is a place on the site to donate for you as well. 40 liters of drinking water for $1. Beats the hell out of Evian- even at Costco.

Cheers!

:) X

A WORD AGAINST WATER by George Saunders

Water. It's a funny thing. Most of us don't give water a thought. I know I don't. I hate water. Water and I have "issues" Remember me, Lake Michigan? Guy in canoe, circa 1978, with girl of his dreams, playing air guitar, flies out of canoe, nearly drowns, emerges gasping, "Farrah Fawcett hair" plastered to his face, as his lady fair decides to dump him and marry Len "Hairy Back" Castelli?

Any of that jog your memory, oh mighty "Michi-Gami"?

So UNICEF, apologies, I'm exactly the wrong person to write about United Nations World Water Day. I never drink water, rarely bathe or shower. If it starts to rain I am inside immediately, flipping the heavens the bird. I get anywhere near a waterfall, I have a panic attack.

I am a perpetually smelly, extremely dehydrated, some even say'dessicated' person who has dedicated my life to infiltrating and debunking water.

Water thinks it's so GREAT. Water thinks its "all that". Floods, bloating, drowning, water on the brain; all of these I lay at the feet of water. When a toddler gets knocked down by a wave at the beach; when a gentle fat man carrying a bouquet slips on some ice, what is that liquid tinkling laughter you hear? Water.

Water's arrogant. Water literally thinks it's worth hundreds of dollars a glass. I have a secret tape of Water saying just this. What nerve! What does Water think it is, champagne? Oil? Does water think it's baby lotion on a day when one's baby's butt is very, very chafed? Speaking of diaper rash, what causes diaper rash? Yes ok, poop. But more specifically?

Moisture.

Water.

So what I say is let's take water down a notch. This MARCH 22, let's all go into New York City Restaurants and insult our tap Water by drastically UNDERPAYING for it, by paying a mere ONE DOLLAR for it!

Ha ha!

This will be so great!

Water, we will say, though we are supposedly "made of you" (a fact many reputable scientists dispute), you are not the boss of us. No. On this day, we are the boss of you.

I can see the frown on Water's face now. I can see the whole Atlantic Ocean "getting moody". There's the Mississippi River aka "Old Man Pouty River." Hey Great Lakes, who's great now?

Me. I am.

Shut up. Stay in that glass. Don't evaporate when I'm I'm talking to you.

Some of you may be saying: George, don't we normally get Water free in restaurants?

Yes, true. Water's usually all like: Oh, I don't mind being given away for free, there is so much of me. I am so clean and delicious, please enjoy.

To which I say: Hey, thanks, Mr. Largesse, how come you're not so clean and delicious everywhere in the world? How come, in many parts of the world, you stink and contain bacteria and are basically undrinkable?

At this point Water usually gets very quiet or starts babbling like a brook or making that plip-plip sound you sometimes hear when the toilet's refilling.

Bango! Right in the double hydrogen bond.

Go to parts of Africa, to Nepal, India. Hundreds of other places around the world: Our pal Water doesn't like these places very much. He shows up, if at all, in very limited quantities, in a disgusting condition. But because he's Mr. Liquid Hubris, he expects people who, unlike me, "need" Water, to use him anyway. And they do, and what happens? They get sick, they die.

That's the kind of guy he is: he shows up filthy, expects to be drunk.

OK. I admit it, there were times, when younger, when I often showed up filthy and expected to be drunk.

But we're not talking about me. We're talking about you, plus a restaurant. On MARCH 22nd, and that beautiful moment when, inspired you order a glass of Water, and gladly pay a dollar for it.

I intend to do so. Of course I won't drink it. I'll take it outside, to a quiet place, and wait, after all these years, for my apology.

BOB on the Town



BOB builds a "Snow-BOB"



BOB attends a family reunion



BOB takes in an action film



BOB at lunch (BOB likes that McDonald's now serves fair trade organic coffee :) )






BOB tries on Easter hats



BOB visits Fredrick's of Hollywood



BOB falls in love at the market