Month: March 2006

Oh, man, this New Yorker piece totally skewers Bill O’Reilly.

In the book, O’Reilly goes on, “No one ever told me or my sister that we were pretty far down the social totem pole while we were growing up in 1960s America. We took for granted that it was normal to buy cars only when they were secondhand, that every family clipped coupons to save money, and that luncheon meats were the special of the day.” And so on: “When our family went out to eat, a rare treat, we didn’t waste money on appetizers, if only because we didn’t go to the kind of restaurants that offered appetizers. Typically the pasta dish was spaghetti, and that was it. No linguine, fettuccine, rigatoni, etceterini, etceterini, to confuse the issue.”

I never saw Nassau County, Long Island, where O’Reilly, who is fifty-six, grew up, in the nineteen-sixties, but I’m guessing that restaurants so unpretentious that they wouldn’t serve a soup-of-the-day didn’t actually exist. Still, the idea of such a restaurant captures O’Reilly’s idea of himself. As soon as he left home—to go to Marist College, in Poughkeepsie, New York—O’Reilly had occasional encounters with members of the fortunate classes, in which, inevitably, he was put down. At Marist, he longed for the girls from nearby Vassar, but “the Ivy Leaguers up from Princeton or down from Cornell got the dates; we were treated like hired help.” By O’Reilly’s account, wealth and fame have not changed the pattern. Even now, when he wanders within range of the “swells,” which he does surprisingly often for a guy who despises them, they sneer at him, just as they would sneer at any ordinary American.

I was downtown today.

First I noticed the cops. Everywhere.

I noticed the “No Parking” signs along Broadway.

I went about my business and then, when the drums and the chants started, I remembered.

Iraq War protest today. Three years.

I agreed with the protesters, but wondered if protest marches are really very effective.

I snapped a couple of pictures.

Then I got on the bus to head home.

Delays. Streets blocked off by cops and marchers with signs and drums and chants.

And, during the delays… whining from the passengers and bus driver.

Honking horns from the other drivers.

The march went on and on, and circled around and then came around again. Blocking traffic. Because they went in a circle it made them seem infinite, never-ending.

I was comfortable, I was inside, I was sitting down. It was Sunday. And the marchers made me think about why they were there: men and women, American and Iraqi and Afghanistani and others are all dying somewhere in the world. Because of lies. Because of a Republican power grab. Our leaders claim to make us “safer” but I don’t feel safer.

Who are the black-body-armored, mirrored-visaged police protecting? The protesters? The bystanders? Or all the pretty corporate-owned buildings? Who feels safer when unarmed citizens are voicing their concerns while armed nervous men stand around and uninvolved citizens are only seeing their own selfish delays?

An old bearded man on the bus, in well-worn faded jeans and a denim jacket and a jaunty leather hat, made a comment every time he heard a horn honk – “Oh, now they’re getting nasty.” The bus driver agreed with him. They both complained, noisily, for the cops to “do their job” and let everyone through.

They didn’t think about why there was a protest. They only thought of themselves, being inconvenienced, being impeded.

A middle-aged lady in front of me kept calling people, apologizing for being late, explaining it was the protest that made her late.

A lady behind me snapped pictures with her camera phone, sent them to others, called them and explained.

Two white vans with riot cops looking like giant black beetles clinging to their sides drove past us, lights strobing hypnotically.

A girl in her early 30s, frustrated, carrying shopping bags, asked the driver to let her off. She was tired of waiting and wanted to move. Another passenger joined her in leaving.

Frustrating for me to see them so blithely unconcerned about the reason for the protest. It seemed that they were confirming my earlier thought – the protest does not awaken any consciousness of the ongoing deaths and destruction. It only irritates people, people who take it out on the protesters, of all people.

Old man with the beard said, “That’s what those cops are doing there. They’re afraid someone’s going to start a riot.”

I had to speak up. “You mean we’re afraid the cops are going to start a riot.” My voice was raw and low and shaking. I don’t normally speak up. I had to force the words from my head down into my lungs and out again, push them up beyond my normal soft-spoken-ness in order to be heard. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to make these impatient unseeing people think.

“No,” the man said, “those protesters might riot.”

“Right,” I said, again forcing the words out, “all those unarmed people might cause some damage to those armored police.” Sarcasm: “Scary.”

The old man with a beard turned back to the bus driver, the one in agreement with him, the man who felt his impatience and didn’t think beyond their own little world. “Why won’t those cops do their job? Let some people through?”

Again, as loudly as I could manage, I spoke up. “Yeah, it’s really tough to have to sit for 15 or 20 minutes… while men and women are dying in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

At that moment, I had everyone’s attention. There was a pause. I felt the people in front of me and behind me shift, uncomfortably in their seats. The old man had turned to watch me, his eyes guarded behind his glasses and shaded by his hat.

Then, as if they were all one person, I felt them all ignore me. They tuned me out. They didn’t want to think about the reason those people were holding up traffic. They didn’t want to think about some far away land and our sons and daughters and foreigners alike, dying daily from bombs and bullets.

Rather than think about that, they simply… erased me in their heads. I could feel myself become invisible.

The old man commiserated with the bus driver, but this time, he tossed in something he thought would absolve him of his selfishness, something he had not mentioned up to that point. He said it to the bus driver but I’m sure it was meant for my ears, because he said it sadly and softly, not proud. “Y’know, I served in Vietnam, and it messed me up good, but…” His voice trailed off. He was unable to complete the thought, because thinking it would remind him of the people in the far-off lands dying and killing.

Until he could get back to what was important, his plaintive whine: “Why don’t those cops do their jobs?”

This morning I ate the best blueberry pancakes I’ve ever had.

So light and fluffy, it was almost a shame to put butter on it – I was tearing them up even as the butter softened and melted over them.

The only downside is that they were gone so fast.

In fact, the entire menu at this place looked amazing, I had a difficult time choosing one item. So I’ll just have to go back and try everything on the menu, one meal at a time.

And, no, I’m not telling you where they were. I don’t want anyone else to know. The owner will be mad but that’s how it has to be.

If you really really want to know, use contact form, ask me nicely privately, and swear to keep a secret.

Here’s something a little odd. Since I’m counting calories, I have a small anxiety about going to someplace “new” for lunch because I want to know how many calories I’m consuming, preferably in advance. If I don’t know in advance, then I try to order “simple” things that are easy to estimate calories.

And, after eating someplace new, I have a bit of anxiety (just a touch, nothing to see a psychologist about) until I do finally figure out what I just ate. Can’t really eat anything else until I know where I stand.

So, that being said, I still wanted to try this place downtown called Chipotle for lunch today, even though I didn’t know the calorie count for my meal. I figured it would be easy enough to guess. But, I was meeting a friend and it was between where we worked, so it was a good choice.

When I got back to my desk, I realized that Chipotle’s is a chain. And often, chains have nutritional information posted on one or more of the internets. So I googled it.

And as it turns out, there are fan sites that let you calculate the calories and other nutritional information for their food (this is the one I used). But the main site does not post nutritional information at all.

Funny… Who has ever heard of a fan site for a restaurant chain?

Standing in the lobby of my building, delicious soy chai and cinnamon scone in hand, waiting for the elevator. Barely awake.

Elevator arrives, I step on, and swipe my badge (it’s a secure building) and press my floor button… and a cute blonde woman in a sharp gray pinstripe jacket and skirt walks in the front door, her high heels tap-tapping on the tile floor, her hair bouncing around her cheeks.

The elevator is closing so I stab at the “Door close” button – oops, not thinking – I fumble for the “Door open” button and, just as the doors close they reverse themselves and open again.

The blonde notices and smiles and steps on. “Thank you!” she says brightly.

“No problem,” I say. “Just bein’ friendly.”

“Well, it’s such a long ride to the top,” she purrs, “I hate to miss the bus.”

“Funny, I don’t see you as a bus rider,” I say. “I figure taxis and limos are more your speed.” And as I say this, she swipes her badge and punches for the top floor.

She swipes her Qwest badge.

And punches the button for the Qwest Executives’ floor.

She laughs, although, now, to me, her breath smells faintly of dead babies. “Take a taxi to work? That would be expensive!”

My blood feud with Qwest is amply documented elsewhere on these internets. A battle that I had, in fact, won but has left such a bitter taste in my mouth that I have sworn never to even acknowledge their existence.

Imagine my discomfort at being forced to work in a building that my employer shares with Qwest. And not just run-of-the-mill Qwest employees, poor damned souls, no; there are Qwest executives on the two floors directly above me. How they must have schemed and plotted after their defeat at my noble hands to gain the ultimate position of superiority over me. However, my purity is not tainted by their soiled presence in the belfry of my office building. No. My honor is enhanced that they would continue to poke at me from such a perch.

Until this day, however, I had not had to interact with one of them. And, in my moment of weakness prior to partaking of all that is good and soy and chai and cinnamon-y, I actually conversed on a friendly, almost flirt-y, level.

I hoped that my sudden disapproval didn’t show too baldly on my face; I just wanted to avoid any further contamination. “Right, spendy,” I murmurred, “money, heh. Right.” I then courteously studied the display of floor numbers, willing my floor to arrive as quickly as possible.

“Have a nice day!” she taunted me as I stepped off.

Wow. I feel… dirty. I need a shower.

Mmmmm…

My favorite breakfast:

1. Grande soy no-water, no-foam Tazo chai.
2. Cinnamon roll
3. Flirting with Sara[h] the redheaded Starbucks barista

Man, if cinnamon was a girl, she’d be a redhead.