i keep on talking trash but i never say anything

Why I Love The Jersey Shore

2010-01-11T22:23:00.003-05:00

Maybe I'm a little late on the blogging about the Jersey Shore phenomenon, but sometimes it takes me a while to let things really sink in. I loved the JS from the first episode--the perfect mix of drama and flashy MTV edits, all with accents I recognize.

It took a few episodes for me to realize that the girls on the show--who at first I declared as corny--were all so familiar to me. I know, and knew, girls just like Snooki, Sammie, and JWoww, something I rarely find on reality shows. They all remind me of my friends from my all-girls high school, strong yet vulnerable. Certain kinds of girls are bred at all-girls schools, and beyond all the stereotypes, I'd like to think we're a bunch of tough cookies in a world where there aren't enough tough females. When JWoww punched that dude in the bar for calling Snooki fat, I thought, "I know some friends who would do that." Her simple explanation as to why--"you don't talk to my friend like that"--made me smile. I've had friends break bottles over people's faces for being "grimey." And while I don't advocate violence, shit, sometimes people really deserve it.

I'm sure I romanticize my teenage years more than I need to and know that I wasn't nearly as bad or as cool as I wanted to be. But I can say, with certainty, that at 15 and 16 I had some of the baddest friends around. Girls who would have taken a punch in a bar on a Saturday night and still made it to school Monday morning to talk about it over breakfast. When I watch the Jersey Shore--though raised on a different shore, miles away yet not so apart--I feel a special kinship to them that I never thought I would.

Mapping

2009-12-22T10:40:00.003-05:00

For Christmas my dad asked for a photograph of our house. Not just any photograph, of course, but one taken during the 1940s by the tax department of New York City, which documented every structure in the five boroughs. He read that the municipal archives were offering up copies of these photos--8 X 10s off of microfilm--and thought it would be cool.

There was an option to order the photo online or via mail, but I didn't trust sending it off and decided to go in person. I didn't mind. I like having an excuse to spend time inside the buildings down by City Hall.

I get inside 31 Chambers into the room off to the side that houses the records. inside are old guys hunched over microfilm machines, taking notes off of old marriage and birth records. I told the woman at the desk why I was there and they had a guy come in from a back room to translate my address into what it was back when they identified places by wards.

I had a hard time reading the microfilm and at first pulled the wrong photo roll out. It took me a while to realize it wasn't my neighborhood--judging by the houses I'd say it was Forest Hills or Rego Park, small frame houses. I went back to the microfilm index.

My house was listed on Ward Five, Block 709, Lot 24. It was on roll A-124 After working my way through the microfilm--which identified the area as Queens, with Rockaway put in parenthesis--I found the roll my house was on and went to the filing cabinet. I spent a few minutes reading and re-reading the boxes before noticing a little note.

"Rolls A1-A199 Do Not Exist."

I went up to the lady behind the counter.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

"It means just that," she said. "There's your answer."

Meaning, the rolls of film that contain the photographs of my entire peninsula no longer exist.

Rockaway doesn't exist.

(Tell me something I didn't know).

re-blog

2009-10-19T23:39:00.001-04:00

Yo!

You!

find me HERE, too.

2009-10-09T09:33:00.001-04:00

Genetics

2009-09-23T21:32:00.004-04:00

Although I'm half-Italian, it's rare that any true guido tendencies come out. I have never thrown a table at somebody. I'm not really attracted much to tape-ups. I don't iron my hair much anymore. And although I do own a nameplate, it's white gold, single-plated, which I think is about as un-Guido as it can be.

Like I said, they're rare. But it happens.

My dad came home two Christmas Eve's ago after a trip to Ragtime, Howard Beach's finest gourmet grocery and deli. He had bought some things for our Christmas Eve feast--seafood salad, antipasta, and, my favorite, some delicious, imported prosciutto. I helped him unload the bag and then opened up the carefully wrapped bag of prosciutto, hoping to eat some. What I found made my blood boil like a pot of sauce on the stove.

"Dad," I said.

"Dad."

He turned to me and said, "What?"

"Did you look at this before you bought it?"

"What do you mean?"

"LOOK."

I grabbed a piece. It was the thickest piece prosciutto I'd ever seen. As a former deli work and slicer extraordinaire, this offended me. As a half-Italian foodie, this made me want to stab someone.

"DO YOU SEE HOW THICK THIS IS?"

"Now, Katie, I...I couldn't open the package in the store..."

I knew this, and I knew it wasn't his fault. But I was angry, and he unfortunately was there. The messenger of bad Italian deli meats.

"It looks like...like Canadian Bacon. God, who was back there? Who the fuck was slicing this?!"

"Katie, I wish you wouldn't curse..."

"It's supposed to be.....PAPER THIN," I screamed. "PAPER THIN! It's INEDIBLE. COMPLETELY INEDIBLE."

Breathless now, I added--

"YOU CAN'T SERVE THIS ON CHRISTMAS EVE!"

I held the pieces in my shaking hands and went through each one. They got thicker as I went through, angering me even more. My dad now was thoroughly frightened and also probably as disappointed as I was that we couldn't sneak some appetizer snacks before dinner.

"This is from the butt-end of the meat," I said, observing the noted thickness at certain parts and the exposed skin on a few pieces. "Those fuckers gave you the complete end of it."

" You're not supposed to do that," I said. "You're supposed to save that to cube up in a pasta salad or in the house vodka sauce. Who doesn't know that? Who would even put this on a slicer? You're not supposed to have to use the fucking guard to cut prosciutto."

I started walking around the kitchen as I continued to talk, having too much anger to stand still.

"You know why they did this to you, Dad."

He looked at me.

"It's because...it's because you're not Italian. They can tell in there. They probably gave their regulars the good stuff. All those lazy old-Howard moms who buy their fucking MEATBALLS at a DELI."

"Well, I wouldn't say that..."

"Well I just did! And it's true! Look at you! Look at you! Look at your fat Irish head and your blue eyes. You were a target! A walking target for bad meat! Let me see the provolone. Let me see it--I want to see how they cut it."

"Katie, relax."

"It's Christmas Eve!" I cried again. "And we don't have edible prosciutto. Now what are we supposed to do? Buy a pack of Danieli from fucking WALDBAUMS?"

"We could pick some up before your mother gets home."

"That's an EVERY DAY prosciutto, Dad. An EVERY DAY kind. This is a holiday. This is ridiculous. You're going to have to bring it back."

"Bring it back?"

"Yes," I said. "Bring it back. To the store. I want you to show this package to the manager, the register girl, the fucking stock boy and tell them what their precious deli workers gave you. You don't need Giada FUCKING deLaurentis to tell you this is bad."

"I think that's a little uncalled for..."

"Uncalled for? Look at how much you paid for this! This imported pack of GARBAGE. Of foam-core-thick prosciutto. Imported fucking HAMBURGER PATTIES of DRY PROSCIUTTO. And you just paid $23 dollars for it."

"It's not a big deal."

"IT IS A BIG DEAL."

He looked at me, and I looked at him.

"You know what," I said. "I'll just go."

He stopped me before I could make it to my car with a solution--he stops back inside Ragtime on his way back from picking up my mom. They could see it was bad. They would probably give him some fresh meat. And I could have my Italian Christmas eve feast. I agreed and handed him my car keys and soon felt the inner Guido inside shrink quietly back down inside of me, where it was all along.

What Mike Bloomberg Wants You To Think About Him With His Internet Ads

2009-09-22T10:16:00.005-04:00

Look! I'm Mike Bloomberg. Sure, I'm a billionaire with a house in Bermuda. Sure, I'm too good to live in Gracie Mansion. Sure, I'm going to spend ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS on my re-election. I'm even too good for a salary--but you're better for it!

Yes, it's true that I'm all of these things. Plus, I'm condescending and arrogant. BUT, did you notice what I was and wasn't wearing here? A blue-collared shirt! Look! I'm just like you working schlubs on the subways--with your little ID tags hanging off your pants and listening to your iPods and reading your free little newspapers--going off to your cubicle jobs wearing khakis and oxfords. I'm just like you! It's not just a PHRASE--my COLLAR IS ACTUALLY BLUE! And I'm not wearing a tie! A regular or bow tie (or ascot, although please, I haven't worn one since the late-80s.)

Did you notice what else I did in this ad? I rolled my sleeves up! You know why? It's because I'm just like you. With my rolled up sleeves you can see my watch; I made sure my people purchased a fairly cheap one so I can be down with you guys. And I roll up my sleeves because I work so hard. I work 60 hours a week so I can pretend to barely afford the new, higher property taxes on that semi-attached house in Glendale or Marine Park or Whitestone. It's these rolled up sleeves that would have been paying tolls on the East River bridges just so I can just get to work to use these exposed forearms (ever try to take public transportation from these middle-class neighborhoods? It's a nightmare!) It's these rolled up sleeves that represent schools that aren't really better, but still get As. It's these sleeves that can say to my hypothetical children, "When I was your age, I got a real education!" and actually mean it! Mike Bloomberg is just like you!!

I'm also sitting in an empty coffee shop drinking regular coffee. Just look at that cup. It looks like it came from a Greek diner or a bodega or off of a cart. I'd never spend more than 90 cents on a cup a' joe--I mean, not for nothing but that Starbucks stuff don't even taste good. Am I right? Huh? Five bucks for a cup of coffee just ain't right! I was never one for those fancy drinks neither. Never spend more than a buck on coffee. This stuff is it. The good stuff. Keeps me up. Right?

My collar isn't white. God, I'm an Independent--didn't you see? I'm not like all those other politicians--I'm like you! Now can't my poll numbers go up?

Can't you see this blue fucking shirt?

2009-09-19T21:17:00.001-04:00

2009-09-17T22:10:00.000-04:00

you can find me...

2009-09-16T20:59:00.002-04:00

For those interested, I will be blogging for a little at my school blog over here.

This blog is far from dead, but I'm doing that for a grade so, ya know, it'll take priority. The topics will be a little bit more scholarly too.

Classic

2009-09-10T23:04:00.003-04:00

I only signed up for the St. Francis de Sales Summer Classic, my parish's basketball league, for the uniform. I considered owning a pair of the shorts and one of the t-shirts a right of passage for any Rockaway kid and, always wanting fit in, I signed up to play for a few summers.

In my short career as a summer baller, the teams I played on were mostly average. This wasn't bad, considering I was a below average player. Could I make a layup? Barely. Could I shoot? Sometimes, if I got into a groove. What I knew was based off of what I watched on TV and did in the Walsh's backyard court, and even those few skills could be erased if I got too nervous. The blacktop of the SFDS schoolyard might as well have been the Garden to me; once I got out there, my heart raced and I'd usually choke. But at least--at the very least-- I'd get to keep the t-shirt.

The summer I was 12 I received a call at home from my next Summer Classics coach. My mom answered, and she spoke for a few moments before I heard her say, "Sure, I'll go get her."

And with her hand cupped over the receiver, she whispered to me,

"it's your Summer Classic coach--she says she knows you!"

I picked up the phone and said, "Hello?" and on the other end of the line there was an excited, masculine-sounding voice.

"Katie!" she said, "It's Mary. Mary Jones*! I'm the coach at [all-girls Catholic High School in Brooklyn]. You know me--I know you. We're going to be playing basketball this summer. I'm very excited!"

"Oh," I said, slightly confused. "Ok. Cool."

"I'll see you on Tuesday," she said. "I want to go all the way this year!"

I hung up the phone. I had no idea who this lady was, but somehow, she knew me. Perhaps she had heard about my fairytale run to the 10th Round of the Diocesan Math Bee? Or maybe she'd been told of my perfect score on the 5th Grade English-Writing State Exam? Regardless of how she did know me, I started to get excited. Not only was I now going to be playing on an above average team--maybe even a championship one--I was actually recruited to play for it.

Now there is an unwritten rule in the league that bans the stacking of any teams. The players are supposed to be chosen randomly, by someone other than the coach. Yet every year, there are teams far superior to the others, with entire rosters that practically mirror AAU travel teams or, in the case of the older high school division, have all had features in the Daily News high school sports section. These teams always steamroll their way to the Championship game, almost always taking home something I desired even more than the regular uniform: The St. Francis de Sales Summer Classic Championship Long Sleeve T-Shirt. It came in three colors: purple, red, and green, and under the tiny floodlight in the Walsh's backyard, as I clumsily practiced my shot, I would often close my eyes and imagine wearing it. And now it was in my cross hairs. How, I had no idea, but it was there.

I showed up the following Tuesday and found my way to my team. I saw girls I knew from school--Jenny Willis with the killer 3-point shot, Megan O'Sullivan who was recruited by Christ the King--and asked where the coach was. They pointed to a skinny, athletic woman in men's basketball shorts and a tank top. I approached her.

"Hi," I said

She looked me up and down a few times and then ignored me. I tried again.

"Hi. I'm...on your team."

She stopped and looked.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Katie Honan."

She looked me up and down some more.

"You are?"

My face scrunched up and I stared at Coach Jones for a few minutes before defending myself.

"Uh, yes."

She looked at her roster, than at me, then stared at the roster a few moments before saying,

"You're not who I thought you were."

I don't think that will be the first time in my life where somebody mistakes me for somebody else. I'm sure I'll hear the phrase "you're not who I thought you were" again, if I ever embark on an adventure into internet dating, or perhaps in the middle of a fight with someone, shocked or disappointed by my actions. But then that would be sort of theoretically thinking I was somebody else, not literally. Nothing hurts like the first time you're found out; you'll never be good enough from who they thought you were going to be. My 12 year old heart dropped to my feet.

Once I got over the initial misunderstanding, a different sort of feeling set in. I wanted to know who she thought I was. The other Katie Honan. I only knew of one--apparently not who she may have wanted, but a decent, interesting person nonetheless. And I only even knew of four other Honans , all happening to be members of my immediate family. I thought foolishly that we might be the only Honans in all of the United States, judging by how infrequently the McGuinness's Irish Gift Shop sold our souvenir family crest. The lady behind the counter even told us it wasn't a common name, and I imagined the only other Honans somewhere in Ireland, distant cousins sharing my last name while they milked cows and lived in thatch-roof houses.

The idea that there were other Honans sharing air with me in the same regional area--close enough that they were on my town's radar, yet far enough that I had never heard of them--freaked me out. What did the other Katie Honan look like? Was she better at Uno than I was? What kind of daytime television did she watch? Why was she so great in basketball? Why did this coach want her so bad?

But nothing would be resolved as the season progressed. Coach Jones was stuck with me the rest of the season because of another rule that was put in place, originally to help these all-star teams stay that way. Once a team roster was created, it could not be changed. I couldn't be traded or kicked off just for a simple case of mistaken identity. The purpose of the league, after all, was to promote sportsmanship, athleticism, and dependency on the Catholic Church for all social activities. It wasn't very Christ-like to turn me back to the league commissioner all because of my lack of skill. And I never even had the chance to ask Coach Jones who she thought I was, since she stopped talking to me once she realized who I wasn't.

So the season went on, and I never played and never learned about the other me. So be it. Peninsula Hospital Center, our team, rolled through the regular season, crushing other teams by often double-digit margins, and we easily made it to the playoffs. I still showed up to every game on the off-chance I'd get some playing time, but I always just rocked the bench. Sometimes I would get so bored I'd create elaborate situations in my head where the other Katie Honan showed up to one of the games, demanding to know who I was and I what I was doing pretending to be her. She'd be like my evil twin--sleeker, thinner, taller, with a shot like John Starks and the blocking ability of Hakeem Olajuwon. Often in these fantasies the Evil Katie Honan and I would get into a verbal shouting match under the lights which would end with us both slapping each other across the face, I yelling, "Who are you?!" and Evil Katie Honan replying, indignant, "No, who are YOU?!"

The game would usually be over before our imaginary fight went any further. I'd pack up my stuff and I'd stop by the Snack Shop for a Marino's Ice before walking home.

I arrived for the championship game early, and took my place on the bench after warm-ups. We were playing Baskin Robbins, a team we'd easily beaten early on in the season. They were a scrappy bunch, though, and we trailed after the first half. They wanted those shirts, and they wanted it bad, and more importantly, they were a team who observed the rules and wanted to beat the team that got so far because they didn't. I resonated more with them than I did my own team, and I secretly rooted for them from the sidelines. I would have loved to have seen the look on Coach Jones' face after all that scheming.

But Peninsula was a team of all-stars. My teammates rallied and by the final few minutes we were leading BR by over 15 points. It was then that Coach Jones glanced in my direction and reluctantly pointed to the court.

"You're in," she said, although she could barely look at me when she said it.

I jumped off of the bench and got on the court and crouched down low like I saw them do on TV, my arms hanging down like a monkey. We turned the ball around quickly and I raced up to get under the hoop. Meghan O'Houlihan saw me--she held the ball up, about to pass it, rethought it, but then passed it to me when she had no other options. I felt the rubber ball in my hands and dribbled it--hearing the sound, feeling it come back into my hand--and stopped. I swirled, pivoted on one foot, extended my right hand and let it fly up. Like a gazelle. I heard that sound--swoosh--and made the layup. I guess I'd finally learned something from all those hours of watching.

I followed my team back to the other side (keep moving, keep moving, don't watch it, keep moving) and before I knew it, the game was over. I played. I scored. We won. I got my shirt, which I still wear because it says "champions" on the left arm. I never saw Coach Jones again.

And years later, I finally found out about the other me. Who I was supposed to be. Turns out there's another family of Honans who also have two daughters, although they don't have a Katie. Dumb Coach. They live in Brooklyn but had a cabana at the Surf Club and they excelled at swimming and basketball. They went on to attend [All-Girls Catholic High School in Brooklyn Full Of Snobs], and I recently tried friending them on Facebook but they denied me.

Every so often I'll meet someone who knows of these other Honans.

They ask me if I've ever met them. I always answer, "sort of."

'I am a part of all that I have met

2009-09-10T10:48:00.003-04:00

Tho much is taken, much abides
That which we are, we are --
One equal temper of heroic hearts
Strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'

A Quick Note About Healthcare

2009-09-09T20:26:00.002-04:00

Last summer I got Swimmer's Ear, which I get quite frequently in the summertime because I dive funny and also, my friends and I still like having handstand contests in the ocean even though we are all in our early to mid 20s. I visited my family practitioner after trying many home remedies (wax, Demerol, Q-tips) that did not work. I still was deaf in one ear and half deaf in the other, which actually resulted in some hilarity at a job interview (a story I'll tell at a later time).

At this time I was insured by Cobra. I would not call this ear cleaning a really invasive procedure. Basically, my doctor took what looks like a giant steel needle, filled it with water, and used the force to flush the wax buildup out of both my ears. It did involve the help of one of his assistants--someone had to hold the little receiving bucket, right?

I filled out the insurance forms and payed the co-payment and a month later received a giant package in the mail. There were dozens of forms and questionnaires wanting to know about this pre-existing condition. They wanted to know my history. They said they wouldn't pay for the procedure.

All for fucking swimmer's ear. Imagine if it was something real?

I don't have insurance anymore. I'm real careful about my health, too, now that I'm living on the edge. For one, I don't have handstand contests in the ocean anymore--too dangerous.

think about it: Swine Flu

2009-09-01T23:11:00.001-04:00

The outbreak began in queens (thanks again, St. Francis Prep), yet the borough is suffering from an extreme shortage of hospital beds. Are there any plans to build new hospitals? No. But hey, someone just offered to build an 11 story condo in my driveway.

Further Info HERE.

wherever i go, there's sand in my sheets

2009-09-01T22:51:00.003-04:00

Living there still means you have to cross a bridge to see a movie, buy clothing or, with few exceptions, get a good meal. Living there probably means your basement will flood and the planes from nearby J.F.K. will interrupt your sleep. You might get evacuated for a hurricane. You will get stuck in beach traffic.

Hometowns incite nostalgia, seaside hometowns maybe more than most. All the sensory memories that the shore provided -- the Wednesday night fireworks, my collection of sea glass, the taste of salt on someone else's skin -- enhance what must just be a yearning for summer. A summer of my youth, most likely. An imaginary summer of my youth, perhaps.

No amount of attention can romanticize a past that is not necessarily a romantic one, but in the end, romance is personal and the present is full of potential. Today there is an explosion of construction. Real estate values are high. The water is clean. The Rockaway Music and Arts Council and the Rockaway Artists Alliance fill the cultural void. There are good waves, Dad reports. And the laughing gulls are back.

The New York Times, April 18, 2004, Jill Eisenstadt

On Studying Hard In School (and other ways to get succesful)

2009-09-01T09:04:00.001-04:00

From an email from my mom. I just started j-school last week.

I am reading Barbara Walters book "Audition." It is her life story of rising to the top of her profession. Apparently the rise involved a lot of activity with men at the top. She talk openly about the help she got along the way. Women who rise to successful positions often say they did it on talent. From Walters point of view the talent was not on the written page. She was lucky to make the right connections but it was not easy and she did have to make sacrifices. Have a great day.

Classic

2009-08-30T10:36:00.017-04:00

I only signed up for the St. Francis de Sales Summer Classic, my parish's basketball league, for the uniform. I considered owning a pair of the shorts and one of the t-shirts a right of passage for any Rockaway kid and, always possessing some desire to fit in, I signed up to play for a few summers.

In my short career as a summer baller, the teams I played on were mostly average. This wasn't bad, considering I was a below average player. Could I make a layup? Barely. Could I shoot? Sometimes, if I got into a groove. What I knew was based off of what I watched on TV and did in the Walsh's backyard court, and even those few skills could be erased if I got too nervous. The blacktop of the SFDS schoolyard might as well have been the Garden to me; once I got out there, my heart raced and I'd usually choke. But at least--at the very least-- I'd get to keep the t-shirt.

The summer I was 12 I received a call at home from my next Summer Classics coach. My mom answered, and she spoke for a few moments before I heard her say, "Sure, I'll go get her."

And with her hand cupped over the receiver, she whispered to me,

"it's your Summer Classic coach--she says she knows you!"

I picked up the phone and said, "Hello?" and on the other end of the line there was an excited, masculine-sounding voice.

"Katie!" she said, "It's Mary. Mary Jones*! I'm the coach at [all-girls Catholic High School in Brooklyn]. You know me--I know you. We're going to be playing basketball this summer. I'm very excited!"

"Oh," I said, slightly confused. "Ok. Cool."

"I'll see you on Tuesday," she said. "I want to go all the way this year!"

I hung up the phone. I had no idea who this lady was, but somehow, she knew me. Perhaps she had heard about my fairytale run to the 10th Round of the Diocesan Math Bee? Or maybe she'd been told of my perfect score on the 5th Grade English-Writing State Exam? Regardless of how she did know me, I started to get excited. Not only was I now going to be playing on an above average team--maybe even a championship one--I was actually recruited to play for it.

Now there is an unwritten rule in the league that bans the stacking of any teams. The players are supposed to be chosen randomly, by someone other than the coach. Yet every year, there are teams far superior to the others, with entire rosters that practically mirror AAU travel teams or, in the case of the older high school division, have all had features in the Daily News high school sports section. These teams always steamroll their way to the Championship game, almost always taking home something I desired even more than the regular uniform: The St. Francis de Sales Summer Classic Championship Long Sleeve T-Shirt. It came in three colors: purple, red, and green, and under the tiny floodlight in the Walsh's backyard, as I clumsily practiced my shot, I would often close my eyes and imagine wearing it. And now it was in my cross hairs. How, I had no idea, but it was there.

I showed up the following Tuesday and found my way to my team. I saw girls I knew from school--Jenny Willis with the killer 3-point shot, Megan O'Sullivan who was recruited by Christ the King--and asked where the coach was. They pointed to a skinny, athletic woman in men's basketball shorts and a tank top. I approached her.

"Hi," I said

She looked me up and down a few times and then ignored me. I tried again.

"Hi. I'm...on your team."

She stopped and looked.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Katie Honan."

She looked me up and down some more.

"You are?"

My face scrunched up and I stared at Coach Jones for a few minutes before defending myself.

"Uh, yes."

She looked at her roster, than at me, then stared at the roster a few moments before saying,

"You're not who I thought you were."

I don't think that will be the first time in my life where somebody mistakes me for somebody else. I'm sure I'll hear the phrase "you're not who I thought you were" again--if I ever embark on an adventure into internet dating, or perhaps in the middle of a fight with someone, shocked or disappointed by my actions. But then that would be sort of theoretically thinking I was somebody else, not literally. Nothing hurts like the first time you're found out; you'll never be good enough from who they thought you were going to be. My 12 year old heart dropped to my feet.

Once I got over the initial misunderstanding, a different sort of feeling set in. I wanted to know who she thought I was--the other Katie Honan. I only knew of one--apparently not who she may have wanted, but a decent, interesting person nonetheless. And I only even knew of four other Honan's , all happening to be members of my immediate family. I thought foolishly that we might be the only Honan's in all of the United States, judging by how infrequently the McGuinness's Irish Gift Shop sold our souvenir family crest. The lady behind the counter even told us it wasn't a common name, and I imagined the only other Honan's somewhere in Ireland, distant cousins sharing my last name while they milked cows and lived in thatch-roof houses.

The idea that there were other Honan's sharing air with me in the same regional area--close enough that they were on my town's radar, yet far enough that I had never heard of them--freaked me out. What did the other Katie Honan look like? Was she better at Uno than I was? What kind of daytime television did she watch? Why was she so great in basketball? Why did this coach want her so bad?

But nothing would be resolved as the season progressed. Coach Jones was stuck with me the rest of the season because of another rule that was put in place, originally to help these all-star teams stay that way--once a team roster was created, it could not be changed. I couldn't be traded or kicked off just for a simple case of mistaken identity. The purpose of the league, after all, was to promote sportsmanship, athleticism, and dependency on the Catholic Church for all social activities. It wasn't very Christ-like to turn me back to the league commissioner all because of my lack of skill. And I never even had the chance to ask Coach Jones who she thought I was, since she stopped talking to me once she realized who I wasn't.

So the season went on, and I never played and never learned about the other me. So be it. All-State Medical Equipment rolled through the regular season, crushing other teams by often double-digit margins, and we easily made it to the playoffs. I still showed up to every game on the off-chance I'd get some playing time, but I just rocked the bench. Sometimes I would get so bored I'd create elaborate situations in my head where the other Katie Honan showed up to one of the games, demanding to know who I was and I what I was doing pretending to be her. She'd be like my evil twin--sleeker, thinner, taller, with a shot like John Starks and the blocking ability of Hakeem Olajuwon. Often in these fantasies the Evil Katie Honan and I would get into a verbal shouting match under the lights which would end with us both slapping each other across the face, I yelling, "Who are you?!" and Evil KH yelling, "No, who are YOU?!"

The game would usually be over before our imaginary fight went any further. I'd pack up my stuff and stop by the Snack Shop for a Marino's Ice before walking home.

I arrived for the championship game early, and took my place on the bench after warm-ups. We were playing Baskin Robbins, a team we'd easily beaten early on in the season. They were a scrappy bunch, though, and we trailed after the first half. They wanted those shirts, and they wanted it bad, and more importantly, they were a team who observed the rules and wanted to beat the team that got so far because they didn't. I resonated more with them than I did my own team, and I secretly rooted for them from the sidelines. I would have loved to have seen the look on Coach Jones' face after all that scheming.

All-State Medical Equipment was a team of all-stars, after all. My teammates rallied and by the final few minutes we were leading BR by over 15 points. It was then that Coach Jones glanced in my direction and reluctantly pointed to the court.

"You're in," she said, although she could barely look at me when she said it.

I jumped off of the bench and got on the court and crouched down low like I saw them do on TV, my arms hanging down like a monkey. We turned the ball around quickly and I raced up to get under the hoop. Meghan O'Houlihan saw me--she held the ball up, about to pass it, rethought it, but then passed it to me when she had no other options. I felt the rubber ball in my hands and dribbled it--hearing the sound, feeling it come back into my hand--and stopped. I swirled, pivoted on one foot, extended my right hand and felt it fly up. I heard that sound--swoosh--and made a layup. I guess I learned something from all those hours of watching.

I followed my team back to the other side (keep moving, keep moving, don't watch it, keep moving) and before I knew it, the game was over. We won. I got my shirt. I got to play. I never saw Coach Jones again.

Years later, in High School, I finally found out about the other me--who I was supposed to be. Turns out there's another family of Honan's who also have two daughters, although they don't have a Katie. Dumb Coach. They live in Brooklyn but had a cabana at the Surf Club and they excelled at swimming and basketball. They went on to attend [All-Girls Catholic High School in Brooklyn Full Of Snobs].

Every so often I'll meet someone who knows of these other Honan's.

They ask me if I've ever met them. I always answer, "sort of."

Bilionaire Mayors--They're Just Like Us!

2009-08-28T17:53:00.002-04:00

thank you Queens Crap for bringing this photo to my attention. I always had a feeling, but now this confirms that Mike Bloomberg is THAT guy at the baseball game. Total douche.

New York is a Beautiful Place

2009-08-23T16:46:00.002-04:00

I was inside a 24-hour deli on Amsterdam and 81st at 7 in the morning when a kid just a few years older than me walked in the door. He had a backpack and was holding a cardboard sign that basically said he was homeless, new to the city, and needed food or money. I waited on line to pay for my waters when he asked the guy behind the counter, "Hey boss, how much for a 40 of Steelie?"

"Three."

"Three what?"

"Three Dollars"

He looked disappointed then asked, "How bout a tall boy?"

"A what?"

"Tall boy?"

The guy behind the counter looked confused so I helped clarify. "A tall boy--22 ounce. In a can."

"Oh. Two."

So the kid grabbed the tall boy and all I could think was, "$3 for a 40 of Steel Reserve, that's damn near highway robbery, even if we're on the Upper West Side" so I reached into my back pocket and handed a dollar bill to the kid.

"Here," I said, "Upgrade it."

He looked grateful, more grateful than he should have, and after taking the bill he lifted his hands up in the air and said, "New York is a beautiful place! A beautiful place!"

He turned down my offer for food--no coffee, no buttered roll--saying he was all set with the 40.

"It's a beautiful place!" he said again. "Expensive as shit but a beautiful place!"

I wished him luck and walked outside, in the sticky, hot heat, and even though there was garbage on the ground and I had just paid $8 for 5 Vitamin Waters, I kept thinking in my head: this place is a beautiful place.

2009-08-18T10:33:00.000-04:00

"Nobody climbs on skis now and almost everybody breaks their legs but maybe it is easier in the end to break your legs than to break your heart although they say that everything breaks now and that sometimes, afterwards, many are stronger at the broken places. I do not know about that now but this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy."

-ernest hemmingway, a moveable feast

*thanks to roho for the rec

simply put

2009-08-11T18:10:00.002-04:00

MY FEELINGS FOR YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN REAL

2009-08-03T22:18:00.004-04:00

forget where I first heard this song
or even how it ended up on my iPod
but when that beautiful, engraved, 80GB piece of equipment was stolen from me
this is the first song I worried about replacing

2009-07-27T13:40:00.001-04:00

On Wedding Entrances

2009-07-27T12:49:00.002-04:00

Not surprisingly, a lot of the videos titled "BEST WEDDING ENTRANCE EVER" are not, in fact, the best wedding entrances ever. You live and you learn.

poet anne sexton to her 15 y/o daughter linda gray

2009-06-29T21:40:00.001-04:00

april, 1969

Wed--2:45pm

Dear Linda,
I am in the middle of a flight to St. Louis to give a reading. I was reading a NEW YORKER story that made me think of my mother and all alone in the seat I whispered to her "I know, Mother, I know." And I thought of you--someday flying somewhere all alone and me dead perhaps and you wishing to speak to me.

And I want to speak back (Linda, maybe it won't be flying, maybe it will be in your own kitchen table drinking tea some afteroon when you are 40. Anytime)

1st I love you
2. You never let me down
3. I know. I was there once. I too, was 40 and with a dead mother who I needed still.

This is my message to the 40-year-old Linda. No matter what happens you were always my bobolink, my special Linda Gray. Life is not easy. It is awfully lonely. I know that. Now you too know it--wherever you are, Linda, talking to me. But I've had a good life--I wrote unhappy--but I lived to the hilt. You too, Linda--live to the HILT! To the top. I love you, 40-year-old Linda, and I love what you do, what you find, what you are!--Be your own woman. Belong to those you love. Talk to my poems, and talk to you heart--I'm in both; if you need me. I lied, Linda. I did love my mother and she loved me. She never held me but I miss her, so that I have to deny I ever loved her--or she me! Silly Anne! So there!

xoxo
mom

Sarah Palin: Bitch, didn't you lose?

2009-06-12T16:54:00.003-04:00

Obviously I'm going to side with Big Dave Letterman on most issues, but come on--

If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck....it's a duck.

If it gets knocked up (out of it's own stupidity), it's a slut.

as they say in the streets--"baller status"

2009-06-12T10:42:00.002-04:00

love this song. love this cover.

2009-06-08T23:03:00.001-04:00

living

2009-06-07T11:33:00.002-04:00

"Honan, I can't take Albany anymore. There's so much poverty; everybody's poor. I've never lived in a bad neighborhood in my entire life. The worst place I ever lived in was the Spanish part of Bay Ridge, and even that wasn't so bad."

-candace wilson

2009-06-02T21:24:00.004-04:00

I was standing outside the Barnes and Noble on 5th Ave. and 18th street this morning at around 8:45, waiting for 9am so I could go inside and buy a book of maps. It was a popular place to be, too, as seen by the 10 or so other people who also waited outside with me.

Lurking around was this black guy holding two backpacks and rocking a backwards SF Giants hat. He walked to the door and looked inside, muttering--to himself, maybe, or to the people through the glass inside. You didn't have to look at this guy very long to realize he was crazy, as so many people are, but this dude seemed to have some anger behind him. Alright, I thought, it happens. Until he walked up to the girl standing next to me, who had just landed in NY from London (I eavesdropped on her cell conversations) and sounded so innocent with her accent.

"Yo, fuck you bitch, fucking Obama man, fuck the FBI they don't know me, get off my DICK BITCH, BITCH get off my DICK..."

She walked away, clearly disturbed, and he walked to some other chick and did much of the same. Everyone ignored him until he started bothering another woman who happened to be walking up 5th; he matched her fast pace and caught up behind her and stepped down on the back of her shoes, flat-tiring her. The guy next to me-- a big guy--stood up and said, "Hey now."

And that woman--short, blonde, wearing a sweater tied around her shoulders, carrying a big Hobo bag on her shoulder and a coffee in her hand--stopped, dropped the bag to the ground, and went up to him.

Is she going to punch him? I thought. No, no--throw the coffee in his face.

No.

After she stopped she bent down, shifted her right pant leg up and grabbed the gun she had strapped to her ankle.

I couldn't hear what she was saying but I could read her face, tough and challenging, daring this everyday crazy guy to do something to her. He carried on--"FUCKING SHOOT ME MAN, YOU DON'T KNOW, GET OFF MY DICK"--but it was obvious that he had lost, especially after she continued to follow him up 5th as started walking away. The gun was put away at this point, but the coffee was still in hand.

Swine Flu

2009-04-27T23:11:00.001-04:00

Swine flu? From Cancun? Back when I was a kid, any surprises brought back from Spring Break could be taken care of at Planned Parenthood.

shut yo' mouth

2009-04-21T02:47:00.002-04:00

"looking back, i should have hugged her before yelling and screaming at her."
[corner of grand & essex]

"hey, we have a sexual predator roaming our streets now. we're just like brooklyn!"
[sparrow bar, astoria]

thinking > speaking

The Bitch In The Audience From The Susan Boyle Video

2009-04-19T02:07:00.003-04:00

You'd win "Britain's Got Makeup Talent", for sure.

2009-04-12T20:41:00.001-04:00

"It's too bad [Dov Charney's] such a misogynist creep. He has no idea how much I love tight and bright clothes."

-Elona Jones

Later, Douchebags

2009-04-10T21:38:00.002-04:00

[my posting is on a three-month delay]

crawling back

2009-04-09T18:23:00.002-04:00

"For Christ's Sake, if she wasn't so open about being a lesbian, you'd swear she was sleeping with Mayor Bloomberg."

-My mom, referring to UFT president Randi Weingarten

Happy Purim

2009-03-10T17:03:00.003-04:00

CAN WHITE PEOPLE SERIOUSLY STOP DRESSING UP IN BLACK FACE? SERIOUSLY, PLEASE.

Why Did It Take Me This Long To Watch This?

2009-03-02T18:23:00.000-05:00

Loretta, I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn't know this either, but love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed!

THIS IS WHY YOU'RE FAT

2009-02-09T16:58:00.000-05:00

HEAVEN and HELL.

Kids

2009-01-16T14:10:00.004-05:00

When I'm older and have kids, I'm gonna lie to them all the time.

There's nothing wrong withit. Nothing wrong with smacking them around every so often, either, but that's neither here nor there. My mom and dad lied to me every Christmas and Easter, every time I lost a tooth, every time they told me the candy store was closed (when it wasn't, those jerks). The lie I remember best, though, was on a family trip to Sesame Street.

Now a brief description on this blog post cannot begin to illustrate how obsessed I was with Sesame Street. Damn. I loved it, but I especially loved Bert and Ernie. So months before the trip I started collecting paper clips to give to Bert when I saw him, since he collected them. The day of the trip, I had them wrapped in a sandwich bag, and even though it couldn't have been more than 5 or 6 paper clips I was beyond excited to give them to him.

My parents must have stalled all day at Sesame Place when I asked them about seeing Bert. They must have made something up just so they wouldn't have to explain that no, Katie, I don't think the pimply teenager currently actually inside the Bert costume wants your stupid paperclips. So on our way the parking lot my mom told my dad to bring them to his house, and me and my mom and my sister all waited at the gate. A few minutes later my dad came rushing back, smiling, minus the bag I had handed him earlier.

"I gave Bert your paperclips," he said. "He really liked them and wanted me to thank you. And oh, look!"

He pointed up to one of the houses.

"That was Bert just waving from his window. You just missed him, but he saw you."

I slept the whole drive home and most likely dreamt pretend dreams of paper clips and puppets.

Mom and dad and parents everywhere--thank you for not telling your children the truth.

For All The Romantics

2009-01-05T09:35:00.000-05:00

they've been right all along

2009

2009-01-01T20:59:00.003-05:00

This moment is more important than you think.

That's written outside of a pizza place on 1st avenue and every time I walk by I try to stop and take it in and appreciate that very moment. But then I keep walking and forget about it and get angry at slow tourists.

And while I don't like making resolutions on January 1st, I will try to appreciate every individual moment that comes my way from here on out.

Jim and Pam SUCK

2008-12-28T23:03:00.004-05:00

Yea, that's right, I'm going to title this post like that.

Because they do.

I don't claim to be the world's biggest Office fan, nor do I want to be the world's biggest Office fan, but as a casual viewer I can say, with authority, that Jim and Pam are the lamest part of that show. Theirs was once a well-played, unrequited love storyline between two likable people. Now, it's just two huge losers who both left Scranton only to find themselves back, being even meaner to the other Dundler-Mifflin people than before.

Perfect example, The Moroccan-Themed Christmas Party. Andy's jamming out on the sitar, and what does Jim do? Tell him, in his typical smug way, to stop playing. You might say I'm a little soft on Andy--I think he's kinda funny and charming, so sue me!--but that shit was uncalled for. Let the man play, will you? Jim and Pam, but especially Jim, prance around the office like their shit don't stink, like they're better than everyone else they work with, but let's look at the facts.

Both left, went somewhere cooler, and came back. You could say it was for their love of each other, but now that they're together, why don't they LEAVE Dundler-Mifflin and go somewhere else? Why did Jim buy his parent's house (mad corny) if he even thought Pam wanted to continue to pursue her art?

If this was more than a sitcom, Pam would lay a serious resentment trip on Jim about lost dreams and un-pursued passions. And Jim would lay a serious guilt trip on Pam for having pined after her for so long and for what seemed to be no reason.

"I could have been a famous artist by now!"

"Well, the hot black chick was better in bed than you are!"

Roy's Stories

2008-12-28T17:24:00.001-05:00

I don't know this guy, but I feel like I do.

2008-12-26T00:10:00.001-05:00

may your days be merry and bright...

2008-12-16T15:25:00.001-05:00

so long

2008-12-11T20:16:00.000-05:00

we'll miss you.

The DOE is Shady It Needs To Be Taken Over

2008-12-05T19:38:00.013-05:00

For my first four years I was nearly silent, crippled by an overwhelming shyness and fear. I talked to my family and my best friend, and to strangers only through my toys. It was mad weird, trust me. In Pre-K, I found my mouth, which came with a side of sass, and I never looked back.

As a punk-ass little kid, maybe P.S 225 wasn't the best choice of schools for me. Being one of the few white kids in a school with major discipline problems made me a star in my grade. I bounded into school with my pigtails and purple bubble coat and made friends with everyone, wishing I could wear my hair in flat twists, too. I stood up for the really bad kids when they got in trouble, certain they were just being misunderstood. I talked too much, even after I was told to stop, even after my seat was changed, and this usually resulted in mass punishments for my whole table (specifically, one Kindergarten Spanish class, where I pissed off everyone at the Red table because I made us get the fried plantains last). I chased boys into the bathroom just to fight them, to scream and point my finger in their face. I got sent to the hall once in 1st but refused to go; I dug my heels into the ground and my teacher had to physically push me out. I posed for photos like a B-girl, my head cocked to one side and my arms folded across my chest. Bottom line: Little Katie Honan was the Illest, the shit, the coolest white kid in school. And it may have been at my parent's realization of this that they decided to transfer me to St. Francis de Sales. I don't blame them for getting me out; a kid like me needed discipline, Sisters, a totalitarian rule dominated by intolerance and handwriting for hours on end. We traded curriculum, a solid education and Brooklyn-Queens Day for discipline, bullshit, and All Saints Day (props to the Immaculate Conception, too). I went from the coolest kid in the universe to some dope who lived "downtown", who came from a weird school, who found the uniform to be stifling. I ended up developing an emotional eating problem and a deep resentment for my religion, but hey, I survived.

And everywhere I went, deep down at the bottom of my ghetto, sassy heart, I always missed the Seaside School.

The city will be "closing" it for the 2nd time in 5 years. Why--the kids keep failing tests. The scores won't go up that high. It's out of control. It's making the city look bad. What they do is send in admins, these asshole suit types who couldn't hold their own in front of 1 kid, let alone a classroom full of them, to watch and observe. They make every teacher re-interview for their position, after taking their school hostage for half a year. Then, they fire half the teachers, supposedly sweeping out the bad ones, but really just getting rid of the most expensive, best trained ones.

It's a sad day when the greatest city in the world can't even get their schools in order. Too much pork at the top--the whole Department of Education needs to be restructured. If I could, I'd take a giant broom to 75 Court St. and just sweep out all the fucking bullshit and energy drainers that keep good teachers away and poor kids staying helpless. Out of sight, out of mind, and once again the Rockaways (or "Seaside" as it was referred to on NY1--who knew?) get shafted. The building isn't going anywhere, but still, it's been branded. From now on it's the school so bad they got taken over twice, so bad they need to sweep in and fire half of the teachers again. What does it do to the energy of a place to have administrators sit and watch your every move, clipboards in hand, making a note of everything you do. And what about the kids?

There was a treehouse in the Pre-K classroom that I remember well. You got to climb up and read books in it, and at 3 and 4, it seemed huge--a giant sort-of secret cave high above the rest of my class. I remember reading books up there, impressed with what I could make out, the words I could put together and remember in my brain. I wonder how many kids felt like I did up there, or if it's still even there. A treehouse in a classroom is an interesting thing, serving no purpose other than a place for kids to call their own. I'm sure it doesn't improve test scores. But still, it's one of those things I remember well, as the first place I learned to love learning and reading. What will happen to places like that once the city and state are through with it? What will the kids of the future remember best--tiny Scantron bubbles and a shadowy figure in the back of a classroom?

Dude, learn how to spell

2008-12-01T13:29:00.001-05:00

Is anything worth eating at Chili's?

2008-11-30T19:10:00.000-05:00

These facebook ads are beginning to get really difficult.

The Bachelor

2008-11-25T22:53:00.005-05:00

As if this show wasn't bad enough with it's simple premise, they now found a guy with a kid. Great. Get a kid involved with the pseudo-courtship of two people feigning and faking their way to love, when they're really just fumbling towards a lame version of celebrity.

Doesn't this go against all rules of dating a guy with baggage? Dr. Phil suggests waiting to introduce the child to the person you're dating until you know it is serious. Isn't this kid gonna get confused by a revolving door of hussies?

Honestly! This show only worked out for one couple, Trista and Ryan, and I still think that relationship's fake (doesn't Ryan seem a little short-bus?). I guess The Bachelor Bob got to meet Greenlee Smythe because of his fame.

More Wave Letters

2008-11-23T22:25:00.002-05:00

I started looking through the old documents on my computer, and found a few long-forgotten gems (most notably a Ethics paper on selfishness I titled, "If I Write Three Pages On How I Feel About Selfishness, Does That Make Me Selfish?").

Last Christmas my local newspaper, The Wave, published an article in the "It's My Turn" column by a nationally-syndicated right-wing author. Her article, entitled "Why Liberals Hate Christmas", enraged me so much (I love Christmas!) I sat down to write a letter. I never thought it was up to snuff enough to send it, but looking back, I was wrong. I should have sent this in.

Dear Editor,

Last week’s “It’s My Turn” column, written by a woman with seemingly no interest or ties to the Rockaway community, was an interesting piece of “journalism” (the quotes are intentional). Even editorials are bound to some ethical standards, and her piece was nothing more than a one-sided, biased attack on her own definition of a “liberal.” Ms. LaBrecht claims that politics are what drive liberals, which makes sense, since “liberal” is usually used to describe a person’s particular political leanings. And for someone who criticizes liberals for bowing “to government authority” instead of a “higher authority” (which is what she claims Conservative Christians bow to), she certainly has no qualms about making public her own political leanings by mentioning her involvement with Security Moms for Bush. Later on in the piece she exclaims that the commandment Thou Shall Not Kill “embitters” liberals, what with their support of abortion and euthanasia and stem cell research. Funny, she neglects to make any mention of the death penalty—I wonder if it has anything to do with her support of President Bush, a man who claims to be pro-life, a man who executed a total of 154 death-row inmates during his term as Governor of Texas (www.tdcj.state.tx.us/stat/annual/htm). Not to mention the 3,000+ Americans who have died in the War on Terror, and the tens of thousands of Iraqis who have died as well. But I guess that’s a different kind of killing.

Kathy LaBrecht’s article is nothing more than a cheap shot, put in bullet forms. Do all “liberals” lack accountability and self-responsibility, or faith, or a belief in a higher God? Of course not; just like not all “conservatives” have a higher moral code or any more right to criticize and judge those who don’t do what they do. Her use of cliché’s (her many references to the moral-less lifestyle promoted by Hollywood has been done before, and a lot better, by others more famous than she) and generalizations to describe what she considers a liberal are grounded in nothing more than her own distaste for a group that doesn’t share her own views. Hers is a painfully one-sided argument, and doesn’t seem to serve a purpose in a community newspaper; except, maybe, to laugh at the extremes people will go to broadcast their own ignorance and idiocy. Honestly, where do you find these people?

The Easter Parade

2008-11-23T22:09:00.001-05:00

"After turning back to watch him retreat up the sidewalk, hunched in his raincoat, she wondered why she had sent him away. Life was confusing."

Richard Yates

I Told You I Used To Be Funny!

2008-11-23T22:00:00.003-05:00

I made these fliers for WSJU; not surprisingly, I wasn't allowed to put them up.

2008-11-21T16:05:00.004-05:00

Today my father and I both shed a tear, albeit for different reasons.

Life's Greatest Mystery

2008-11-20T11:25:00.002-05:00

Why can't I ever find a full-sized Mr. Goodbar?

LIFE

2008-11-19T16:22:00.002-05:00

LIFE magazine has released their millions of photos (dating from 1750 on) to the public via a search on Google.

Here's some choice pics from a search of "rockaway."

DAMN, i can relate

2008-11-19T14:46:00.000-05:00

these dont get old

2008-11-17T21:36:00.002-05:00

Oh, Joseph, I'm So Tired

2008-11-16T19:49:00.002-05:00

There would be no more school in our room. We would probably never see Bart again--or if we ever did, he would probably not want to see us. But out mother was ours; we were hers; and we lived with that knowledge as we lay listening for the faint, faint sound of millions.

Richard Yates

budge

2008-11-14T00:23:00.002-05:00

My mom refuses to think Gov. Patterson really means to cut the budget.

"Maybe he just isn't reading the numbers right. He can't see!"

Can We Have An Election Night Do-Over?

2008-11-07T23:20:00.003-05:00

I was working all night and heard about Obama's win via text messages from other people. I still had to take election results ("what precinct are you reporting from?") all the while wanting to jump around and hug people. Kind of like how the rest of the world did, like we all won the World Series and the Super Bowl. I've never seen so many happy people, and when it was all happening I was surrounded by unhappy people talking about their taxes going up. Oh, angry white people. Can't we just take a break and dance around a little?

Aw, such little wannabe Hemmingways

2008-11-06T20:53:00.002-05:00

To everyone threatening to move (to Ireland, Australia, Mexico) because Barack Obama was elected president, here's the truth: THE WORLD DOESN'T WANT YOU! An expat American who DIDN'T support change? They're certainly not going to throw a parade when you land.

YES WE CAN

2008-11-05T03:37:00.007-05:00

Gerald Sullivan started campaigning for 20-year incumbent Audrey Pfeffer's State Assembly seat months ago. His signs--those sharing space with McCain and Palin, and those simply showing his last name, in that "Country First" font--started sprouting up all over my town in September (no Rockawayite wants to focus on politics in the summer). His platform was based on his belief that Rockaway and it's surrounding parts in Southeast Queens needed a change in leadership.

I ran into Sullivan once as he campaigned outside of Waldbaums. He handed me his pamphlet, all red and white and blue with American pride, emblazoned with an eagle and his core beliefs. I'd heard he was campaigning up at church every Sunday, waiting for people as they walked out the door, telling them he'd get rid of abortion if they voted for him. A very ambitious claim, I'd say, specifically tailored towards those strict Catholics who vote on one issue: abortion. For the first time in a long time I regreted not going to church, just for the opportunity to ask how he intended to overturn a Supreme Court ruling. I would have loved to debate with him on the St. Francis steps, asking him the hard questions as my mother pulled me away.

In last week's Pointer, Breezy Point's local newspaper, Sullivan put out an ad that stated "Vote For One Of Us." And therein lies the belief of so many of my neighbors, from where I stand on the peninsula to the tiny western tip. For every race in this election, it wasn't about who was the better candidate--it was simply a matter of Us vs. Them. I'd seen it in all the "jokes", in photos printed out from e-mail forwards and tacked behind bars. Once the race for the White House really got going, people's real fears and beliefs started coming out. They believed anything they heard about Barack Obama as long as it was negative, refusing to think rationally or sensibly. It was simply White vs. Black, masked as concerns over higher taxes or his "terrorist" ties (only in Rockaway could "socialist" became another word for "black guy", as in "I can't vote for him, he's a socialist!"). I honestly didn't think Rockaway could be this bad. I actually thought better of it. The people I've seen and heard from have changed that for me, and have made me even more certain of what fear and hate-mongering can do to people.

And now let me say this: I am 2nd and 3rd generation American, the granddaughter and great-granddaughter of immigrants from Ireland and Italy. My Grandma Honie left County Louth at 17 to come to a country she only saw in pictures. She landed the day after Charles Lindburgh made his cross-Atlantic flight and always thought his trip overshadowed her own, certain hers was more important. Years after the Know-Nothing Party and "Irish Need Not Apply" signs sprout up all over New York City, she still had one thing standing in her way of getting a job and starting her life--her Irish brogue. So she ditched it. And just like that, she became an American. She worked with Germans and Poles and Italians and learned how to cook, and raised her family in what is now the most diverse place in the entire world. I often think what it meant for her to have to change the way she spoke. Was she thankful that it was all she had to do to blend in a little better? Thankful that, unlike some people who are seen as outsiders based on skin color, all it took was to change the way she spoke? I'm sure the people who live around me have similiar stories from their family tree, and this is what strikes me: how quickly they forget the way Americans have treated each other since this land became official. How quickly they can undermine the hard work and dedication of somebody just because he's black, and how they can write somebody off based solely on that. Maybe they didn't see what I saw on Election Night, once I heard while working at the AP of the states Obama had won--first Virginia, then Oregon, then OH MY GOD HE DID IT. Yes, we did it. We made history, we broke down barriers, we finally fulfilled the claims made by our Founding Fathers. We made good on promises to everyone who came here from someplace else, no matter how long ago. We showed the world we're actually as good as we say, something that seemed empty in the past eight years. I may not feel it as much as some, but still, it's there, at the core of what I believe: this is America the Great, America the Beautiful, America the Land of Opportunity. My Grandmother was right when she said her trip was more important than Lindburgh's. It continues to be more important now, in the days since we've elected Barack Obama.

Many people came here seeking two things: hope and change. Here you go. I'm happy that I was a part of it, and only wish my neighbors could feel the same.

[note: Gerald Sullivan lost 67%-33%]

I Waited For This

2008-11-03T14:48:00.004-05:00

Eleven stories high above Vegas, I waited. It was close to 7am, and I hadn't slept yet, and instead of laying in bed with the blinds closed I sat cross-legged on the hotel desk and watched what was below. My friends had left hours before for a flight back to New York. They were most likely on the plane right now, thinking I was crazy for refusing to go back with them, for refusing to change my later flight just to spend this time alone.

"What are you gonna do in Vegas for six hours? It's not like you'll have time for the pool. Won't it be nice to get home and have the whole day?"

But I didn't want a whole day at home, because I have whole days at home most of the time. What I wanted, even more than the In N' Out burger I planned on getting on my way to the airport, was to watch the sunrise over Vegas. I'd never heard anything particularly interesting about it, wasn't specifically told in a guide book that I couldn't miss it, like the water show at the Bellagio or the buffet at Mandalay Bay. I just had it in my head that the sight in front of me--dark and bright at the same time, full of specs of neon lights--would look better turning from night to day. I thought it would be like watching something turn from good to bad, a Jekyll and Hyde city shaking off evil.

This town is constantly shining, but like a lot of things, it looks the best from above. The city above, from a hotel window, is bright and clean. Hit the ground and things get more real, a little grittier. Las Vegas is a place where dreams go to die, drunk people sashaying and tossing money on tables and betting all they ever had on red or black.

A little after 7 I looked out towards the strip and saw the first signs of orange and pink over buildings. The lights were still on, and flashing, but slowly things came into place. Orange and yellow and pink all rising from behind the mountains, and in 10 minutes it was all sunshine. I waited all alone for a West coast sunset and a West coast burger, and I had no regrets.

Finally, a name for it

2008-11-03T13:59:00.000-05:00

Most Rockaway People = "Urban Rednecks"

You're Still The One I Live To Impress

2008-11-02T18:05:00.005-05:00

www.dearoldlove.tumblr.com

Like a cost-efficient PostSecret (also, without the occasional secret about molestation). Now all those words and lines floating around in your head, for an ex-love or a never-love, have a place to go (besides your private journal or the drafts in your Gmail, like mine go). Some favorites:

The real insult is you left me for a girl who uses Hotmail as her primary email

I hope that someday, in another life, we will find ourselves traveling the same path at the same time, even if for just a few moments.

Even though we broke up seven years ago, I still rate the way I feel about someone new on a scale that goes from Zero to You.

Since I signed onto Facebook, you all routinely email me about your marriages, divorces, etc., so nothing is left to say. The old, desperate romance has been replaced by friendly indifference.

I held onto the jade cufflinks you gave me for the prom, forty-nine years ago. I just gave them to my son.

Shining Through

2008-10-27T21:03:00.005-04:00

If this Election has done anything yet, it's shown what people are made of. I don't mean those actually running for office, I mean the regular schmucks like me who are just going to vote. It's getting people out to vote, hopefully, but it's also showing many people's true colors.

And it ain't pretty.

I had someone tell me--seriously--that Barack Obama went to the same "terrorist training school" that the 9/11 terrorists went to.

"Columbia?," I said, "Or Harvard."

"No," this girl said. "He went between high school and college."

Yeah, terrorist pre-college. A fucking prep school in Connecticut, right? Was Obama trying to play college ball and didn't have the grades or something?

What the fuck is wrong with people? I know they aren't usually this ignorant, and I think the election season allows them to display what they really (God help us) feel. Today, my friend Tara summed it up pretty well: "All this election serves as is a way to let people show how racist they really are."

And I've seen it, today with my neighbor who called me a self-hating white person, and with the countless other people who say to others, earnestly, "I could never vote for Obama. He's a [n-word]." This stuff is just relayed to me by other people (my friend's dad went out to a bar, and walked right into the middle of the above conversation). I don't know what I would do if someone used that sort of phrase with me. The thought of it upsets me so much that I'm afraid I would cry, making me look even more like some bleeding-heart liberal.

How'd He Do?

2008-10-27T12:48:00.001-04:00

Today While Boxing I Imagined Punching...

2008-10-27T12:26:00.003-04:00

-Frankie Beans, my neighbor, for calling me a "self-hating white person" for supporting Barack Obama. Then he made some bad racist jokes about Sammy Davis Jr.

Boxing's Been Good To Me

2008-10-26T21:57:00.004-04:00

I'm starting to box tomorrow. This is something I've wanted to do since I saw Million Dollar Baby. I never saw the end, though--what happens?

I hope I get strong and sweaty and skinny in time for summer. But mostly strong.

And while watching this week's Ugly Betty, I can't help but wonder what idea the rest of the country/world is getting about Queens girls from watching this show. Seriously, the 59th street bridge isn't some magical time machine that has everyone in the 718 dressing like it's 1993. We get Vogue out here, too. And aren't all so unaware of what's going on. Betty's own perceived clueless-ness regarding wardrobe and perception is used as a way to describe her character, showing that her beauty is more than skin-deep. But with Kimmy, played by LI-native Lindsay Lohan, it just looks silly. Honestly, a mini backpack?

30 Rock

2008-10-25T23:31:00.001-04:00

LIZ LEMON: "We may not be the best people--"

JACK DONAGHY: "But we're not the worst."

LIZ & JACK: "Grad students. Grad students are the worst."

Fresh Face

2008-10-23T12:56:00.003-04:00

www.katiehonan.tumblr.com

I always jump on blog bandwagons. This tumblr blog is an effort to make myself seem more professional as I start applying to grad schools for writin' and such. Don't worry, I'll still be posting here (sometimes). But I thought maybe admissions counselors wouldn't want to read about birthday parties.

Dread Storm

2008-10-22T23:06:00.001-04:00

St. John's Hosts Media Day At The Garden Today

Nobody thought to ask, "are you guys gonna not suck this year?"

Sometimes I Feel Like a Waste Of Life When I'm Not Working

2008-10-22T22:30:00.003-04:00

"I don't know why you're wasting your time looking for a career right now. You're too young; you should be in grad school. You need to have some bullshit job, and live the easy life. You're already ahead of the game. Your only job is to be a professional student, and you're wasting my time having this conversation right now."

-Roseanne Gatto

Republicans Like The Name Joe

2008-10-22T01:23:00.002-04:00

The following is old, written and passed around by some unknown force (I'll call it Internet; all credit is due to him). It's very apropos now, considering all this hooplah over Joes (and people who aren't even named Joe).

oe gets up at 6 a.m. and fills his coffeepot with water to prepare his morning coffee. The water is clean and good because some tree-hugging liberal fought for minimum water-quality standards. With his first swallow of water, he takes his daily medication. His medications are safe to take because some stupid commie liberal fought to ensure their safety and that they work as advertised.
All but $10 of his medications are paid for by his employer's medical plan because some liberal union workers fought their employers for paid medical insurance - now Joe gets it too.

He prepares his morning breakfast, bacon and eggs. Joe's bacon is safe to eat because some girly-man liberal fought for laws to regulate the meat packing industry.

In the morning shower, Joe reaches for his shampoo. His bottle is properly labeled with each ingredient and its amount in the total contents because some crybaby liberal fought for his right to know what he was putting on his body and how much it contained.

Joe dresses, walks outside and takes a deep breath. The air he breathes is clean because some environmentalist wacko liberal fought for the laws to stop industries from polluting our air.

He walks on the government-provided sidewalk to subway station for his government-subsidized ride to work. It saves him considerable money in parking and transportation fees because some fancy-pants liberal fought for affordable public transportation, which gives everyone the opportunity to be a contributor.

Joe begins his work day. He has a good job with excellent pay, medical benefits, retirement, paid holidays and vacation because some lazy liberal union members fought and died for these working standards. Joe's employer pays these standards because Joe's employer doesn't want his employees to call the union.

If Joe is hurt on the job or becomes unemployed, he'll get a worker compensation or unemployment check because some stupid liberal didn't think he should lose his home because of his temporary misfortune.

It is noontime and Joe needs to make a bank deposit so he can pay some bills. Joe's deposit is federally insured by the FSLIC because some godless liberal wanted to protect Joe's money from unscrupulous bankers who ruined the banking system before the Great Depression.

Joe has to pay his Fannie Mae-underwritten mortgage and his below-market federal student loan because some elitist liberal decided that Joe and the government would be better off if he was educated and earned more money over his lifetime. Joe also forgets that his in addition to his federally subsidized student loans, he attended a state funded university.

Joe is home from work. He plans to visit his father this evening at his farm home in the country. He gets in his car for the drive. His car is among the safest in the world because some America-hating liberal fought for car safety standards to go along with the tax-payer funded roads.

He arrives at his boyhood home. His was the third generation to live in the house financed by Farmers' Home Administration because bankers didn't want to make rural loans.

The house didn't have electricity until some big-government liberal stuck his nose where it didn't belong and demanded rural electrification.

He is happy to see his father, who is now retired. His father lives on Social Security and a union pension because some wine-drinking, cheese-eating liberal made sure he could take care of himself so Joe wouldn't have to.

Joe gets back in his car for the ride home, and turns on a radio talk show. The radio host keeps saying that liberals are bad and conservatives are good. He doesn't mention that the beloved Republicans have fought against every protection and benefit Joe enjoys throughout his day. Joe agrees: "We don't need those big-government liberals ruining our lives! After all, I'm a self-made man who believes everyone should take care of themselves, just like I have."

In other e-mail news, I've read things thay say, to the effect, "If you're reading this, thank a teacher. If it's in English, thank a soldier."

Now I can understand where they're trying to go with this. Teachers teach you how to read, but it's the soldiers who secured (and continue to secure) our right to read it in "our" language.

But then, what about the first war in America? The one against the British? Let's say we lost that war; wouldn't we still be speaking English? I guess we wouldn't be a country then, and my ancestors would have remained on opposite sides of Europe, never to have met. I wouldn't even be born. Or maybe I'd be living some alternate life in Sicily or in Ireland, most likely farming (and eating delicious meals). Hm. Not a bad life.

And for the record, my mom taught me how to read.

And for those who print bumper stickers that say these trite sayings, here's my version:

"If You Can Read This, Thank Your Eye Doctor"

Triumph & I Agree On Hofstra

2008-10-17T17:41:00.000-04:00

2008-10-16T17:22:00.001-04:00

Friday Night

2008-10-12T22:47:00.002-04:00

It was a long one. Liz and Auggie had their birthday party at the Bayview, $30 all you can. And like every other all-you-can parties I go to, I started it off responsibly.

"Maybe I won't pay the cover and just drink a beer or two."

That didn't work; everyone had to pay.

"Maybe I'll just stick to beer."

Right. I was drinking Red Bull & Gin by 11. That's the thing about these specials--with the feeling that you're drinking for free, you want to try all new kinds of drinks, crazy, fruity drinks mixed with bottom, bottom shelf liquor and a splash of something else.

By 1 I'm told I TRIED TO BREAKDANCE, failing miserably but getting right back up. I know I jumped around a lot because my legs hurt Saturday morning. At some point we left that bar and got in a cab and made our way--for whatever reason--to Roger's Irish House. Clare, who was drunker than I was, put her head down on the table; she was immediately asked to leave. Well, I was told to get her out. We walked home. Rockaway was quiet and it was cold; I wished I'd brought a jacket. I walked Clare halfway to her block before she insisted I just go home. I walked down my street from Newport (don't know why) and that's when I saw it.

A McCain-Palin-Sullivan lawn sign on my neighbors front lawn.

Rockaway's filled with these things. I think they're obnoxious (and racist!) and unnecessary (and ignorant!). Seeing them so close to my house made me angry; I stood in the middle of the street and stared at it for a while, contemplating what I could do.

I could rip it out. I could tear it up. I could perch myself up on a tree and throw rocks at it, kinda like how Sarah Palin encouraged people to shoot wolves from above (see how far I'm stretching to compare these things?). I wanted so badly to grab it and run, to head down to the beach and throw it in the ocean; then get on my bike and ride around my town and start doing a little domestic terrorism of my own.

But more than that, I wanted some pretzels. So I walked away and went into my house and ate some.

inspiration

2008-10-10T14:08:00.001-04:00

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.

get mavericky in there

2008-10-09T10:29:00.000-04:00

"you can't call yourself a maverick if all you've ever been is a sidekick."
-Joe Biden

What Steve Jobs Had In Mind

2008-10-08T23:16:00.003-04:00

I stood last week next to two guys while waiting (FOREVER!) to be served in the Apple Store. This is an excerpt of their conversation.

DUDE 1: Yo. you ever fuck around with webcams?

DUDE 2: Whatya mean?

DUDE 1: Do you got one?

DUDE 2: Nah, I dunno, maybe.

DUDE 1: Son, my brother's got one. He calls me up the other day, tells me to turn mines on. He's callin' me from a hotel room, right? Two Japanese girls wit' em.

DUDE 2: Oh yea?

DUDE 1: Turn that webcam on and I see these two Japanese girls shaking them titties standing next to my brother. Shut that computer off right quick and got my ass to the hotel room!

DUDE 2: Word.

Mi padre es estupido?

2008-10-05T20:41:00.003-04:00

After eating at one of those mexican restaurants on Roosevelt before the Met game last week, and finishing his taco, my dad leaned back and exclaimed, "tambien!"

I thought about it.

"Also?" I asked.

"No. Very good!"

Could This Ad BE Any More Specific?

2008-09-24T22:59:00.002-04:00

A little redundant, right?

Only Appropriate Thing To Say

2008-09-23T23:48:00.002-04:00

No Shit, Sherlock!

recession, markets failing, remember...

2008-09-21T13:36:00.001-04:00

Goodness is the only investment that never fails.

Henry David Thoreau

Power of the Pen !

2008-09-15T21:51:00.002-04:00

I mentioned a few posts back that I had my first Daily News shoutout from a letter I wrote to Dennis Hamill.

People asked for the full body of the letter, so here it is:

Dear Mr. Hamill,

First, let me thank you for your continued articles about the Rockaways. This has been My Backyard for my entire 22 years, and it's rare that it gets much press in the local papers. I appreciate your humanizing of the neighborhood and I respect your obvious appreciation for the most beautiful beach in New York City.

Having said that, I take issue with your article in today's Daily News. I feel you turn a complex issue--of the lack of resources offered to the entire peninsula, of the fact that the city has used our few miles as a dumping ground for decades--into an issue of black and white. In doing this, you not only present incorrect information, you do nothing to help the cause of bringing the community together. You mention that on the western end of the peninsula there are parking permits required--incorrect. Nowhere in Rockaway do you need a permit to park, unless you mean Breezy Point, the private co-op further west, which is a whole other story. The No-Parking rules, which you describe as a way to keep "transients" out, is something the city has created on weekends and holidays between May and September and is as annoying for residents as it is for those looking to park for the beach. Instead of pointing out what you view to be disparities in the neighborhood, why don't you point out the similarities? I'm a typical white kid from the western end of the peninsula, yet just like my counterparts on the eastern end, I have no movie theater, no bowling alley, no youth center, no pool. Growing up, everything I wanted to do was a bus ride away, making me no different than those living in Far Rockaway. If anything, the transportation in Far Rock--with a LIRR stop, more frequent A trains, buses to Jamaica and into Nassau County--is better than that in Rockaway Beach, Rockaway Park, Belle Harbor and Neponsit. You yourself have written about the proposed YMCA, with a pool, in Arverne; a much-needed haven for all of Rockaway and easily accessible to everyone by car, bus, train, bike, or foot. The issue is still unresolved, as the city continues to build new baseball stadiums and spends millions of dollars on new gates at the entrance to the tiny Queens Botanical Gardens. Just one more example of other areas of this borough and city getting more, while we continue to get less.

Both of the two Rockaways you present in your article suffer from the same lack of resources and lack of opportunities, throughout all of the seasons. The issue of the beach, and the number of lifeguards on it, is minor compared to the other problems that exist. While you may choose to separate us by race and money, you fail to see the bigger picture, of want and need. All kids are left with nothing to do and nowhere to go, and while this problem may manifest itself differently in different neighborhoods, the problem still exists for everybody. In a month, the beaches will be closed, and the kids on this peninsula will still be bored out of their skulls. What are you going to write about then?

XOXOXOX,

Katie

From CNN.com

2008-09-12T05:08:00.000-04:00

" ABC released excerpts of Palin's interview with "World News Tonight" anchor Charlie Gibson on Thursday. The full interview is scheduled to air Friday night on the network's 20/20 program.

Palin said she supported NATO membership for Ukraine and Georgia -- a move Russia strongly opposes. She also said the United States must be "vigilant" about larger powers invading small democracies."

except when that larger power is the US.

College

2008-09-10T22:15:00.002-04:00

I was at Columbia University earlier this evening for a grad school fair (I'm thinking, I'm thinking). Holy. I've never been to the campus, but it is beautiful and a complete oasis from Manhattan.

And there is certainly no doubt when you get on campus that it is an Ivy League school. I went to that other NYC education for higher learning--St. John's--but the two schools can't be more different, and it's noticeable as soon as you walk through those gates on Broadway.

While walking through and getting lost and trying to find the gymnasium, I observed, heard, and saw many things that fit all Stuff White People like stereotypes.

-1 Free Tibet shirt
-6 (!) pairs of boat shoes.
-"Oh, yea, that was on The Colbert Report last night..."
-2 guys wearing manpris
-"Yea, well, I haven't thought about doing the theat-ah at Columbia this semester..."
-tons of student sitting crossed legged on the grass, shoes off, reading shit like Proust and Clarissa

So many white people! I was frightened. Get me back to Jamaica, Queens ASAP.

Think About It

2008-09-08T23:32:00.002-04:00

While watching an episode of Family Matters this evening--the one where Steve and a hot jock compete in a ropes-course to win over Laura's affection--I began thinking about Urkel's one true love, Laura Lee Winslow.

I always felt a special bond with Laura because she was a smart-ass, and had high aspirations (hers were to attend Harvard Law School, mine were to meet Mother Winslow). Laura certainly wasn't unattractive, but she also wasn't particularly hot. On top of it, she was a big bitch, and not just to Steve.

So what was it that had all the teenage boys in Chicago ga-ga over Laura? Myra was a lot better looking. What are your thoughts?

This sort of thing makes me sick...

2008-09-08T13:46:00.003-04:00

This video played at the RNC. Comments made by Keith Olberman condemning MSNBC's airing of this video ("It is a subject of great pain for many of us still and it was probably not appropriate to be shown") have apparently gotten him removed from the anchor chair. For shame.

Once again, 9/11 is being used to elect Presidents whose intentions are to allow more Americans to be killed. Does anyone else see how disgusting this is--complete with ominous narration and a narrative directly connecting the Iran hostage situation to what happened 7 years ago? Lest we forget who was financially backed by the US and whose family was flown out of the country the morning of the attacks. Bin Laden. The Republicans need to find a way to move forward and stop linking everything to 9/11. More importantly, they need to stop trying to win elections by misusing the memory of the thousands who died in vain.

Her Accent Annoys Me

2008-09-08T10:29:00.001-04:00

Reformed Maverick

2008-09-07T21:16:00.001-04:00

BFFF

2008-09-07T20:37:00.001-04:00

EFFING FINALLY!

2008-09-06T22:56:00.003-04:00

One of my favorite cereals is Honey Bunches of Oats with Almonds. Anyone who eats this cereal would be lying if they said they didn't eat it solely for the delicious cluster of oats and honey, bunched together to make the perfect sized addition to your morning bite. The oats are dope beyond all belief and make up for the bland and quick-to-get-soggy other stuff (so boring I can only call it "other stuff"). There have been so many times I've thought, why can't they just make a cereal with this stuff?

Oh snap--they did. I saw the ads for "Just Bunches" tonight while watching some Project Runway reruns and can't wait to hit up Waldbaums in the AM to buy some. This here restores my faith in mankind. This cereal will make me feel good all day long. It will make me forget about how much I hate Sarah Palin and when I'm sad, eating this cereal will erase all my sadness and make me start singing songs about butterflies.

It's just going to be that frigin good.

Look who made the Daily News!

2008-09-02T17:56:00.004-04:00

A few weeks ago, Daily News columnist Dennis Hamill wrote an editorial piece based on his understanding of the "two Rockaways." Now, I gotta give the guy some credit for even writing about what can often be a very bizarre and precarious dynamic on this tiny peninsula; there is so much weird, screwed up stuff going on, so many different people with various-sized chips on their shoulders, that every time I've attempted writing a sweeping blog post about my hometown, I stop. And that's just a post on my personal little blog.

In Hamill's article, he presented the unfair lifeguard distribution and used it as a way to cleanly explain the disparities between the two very different ends of this town (for an idea of just how different, check the crime statistics from the 100th precint--which caters the western end--and then check the 100th--which services Far Rockaway). I took offense to his writing that those on the Western end were somehow living in some paradise, when in reality we're given the same resources than those in Far Rockaway (read: absolutely nothing). Why hurt the cause of community unity by making things black and white? Nothing is ever that simple.

I was so bothered by this article that I sat down at my computer and wrote Mr. Hamill a letter. Earlier in the day I accompanied many other Rockaway residents to city hall and watched as so many of them spoke to a rather small number of councilpersons regarding the re-zoning of Rockaway. I'll write about that later, as I'm in the middle of gathering more information to substantiate my article. But the main point is that I spent an entire day watching as my neighbors and friends fought, in vain, to protect our hometown. They gave impassioned speeches, even as members of the board came late, checked their Blackberries, and then simply walked out early; the number was so low that although the vote couldn't even be made since they couldn't reach a quorum with so few members present.

Fighting City Hall and corrupt politicians and general, run of the mill assholes can get tiring; coming home, turning on Oprah and cracking open the Daily News to find an article like this doesn't help. I didn't think Hamill would respond, but when I read News today, I found a response addressed to me and scores of other people, all with different opinions on the article.

So kudos, man. You made me feel kinda special. And to my neighbors--mainly Bigblues@aol.com and Mamtwin1@aol.com [you're not anonymous if I can find you via your email addresses on Facebook)--please try to do a better job next time of masking your hate, racism, and ignorance in a public forum. You're venom is misguided and not helping anybody.

I've found that there's nothing with having or being a bleeding heart; it's what keeps you running and writing and believing things don't always have to be as they are.

Passive-Aggresiveness on the Campaign Trail

2008-09-01T21:29:00.003-04:00

"Asked how the unmarried teenager's pregnancy would be received by the American people, another senior McCain adviser, Steve Schmidt, replied, "I don't know; I'm not a psychic." "

-CNN.com

Other responses to questions asked have been, "How should I know?"; "What do I look like, a mindreader?" and "Here's a quarter, go ask someone who cares."

Bleeding All Over You

2008-08-28T01:39:00.001-04:00

This Is What's Holding Me Back From Going Back To School

2008-08-27T11:12:00.002-04:00

bart: look at me, im a grad student, im 30 years old and i made $600 last year

marge: bart, don't make fun of grad students, they just made a terrible life choice.

If You Had The Faith Of A Grain Of Mustard Seed, You Could Move Mountains

2008-08-27T00:42:00.005-04:00

"forgive, oh Lord, my little jokes on thee/ and i'll forgive the great big one on me"
-Robert Frost

If my devoted Irish-Catholic Grandma Honie--who used to say the Rosary using pebbles back on the farm in Ireland, since the Limey Bastards wouldn't let her practice her religion--is reading this, then I'm sorry in advance. I hope Heaven doesn't have wireless. I know and I'm sorry.

At a wake once, the wake of somebody who suffered too much on Earth and died too soon, a priest got up and said a few words. Towards the end of his talk, where he spoke how unfortunate it was to lose someone this young, he told us to take comfort in Jesus.

"I know we suffer. But take comfort in knowing...that nobody suffered as much as Jesus did."

Oh yea? What is that, some "NANY NANY POO POO" way of letting us feel like Jesus' pain will always trump ours? Listen, Father, I saw that movie: the suffering lasted about a day. And He got to have a big dinner with all his friends before. You're gonna tell me the suffering of someone on a Friday afternoon is comparable to that of so many people on Earth, people who are in pain for large chunks of their life? People, mind you, who don't have an in with the Big Guy upstairs. People who have no certainty of what will happen when it's all over. People who know only what they see around them, not what they hope and pray and have faith in is real. When I heard that, I scoffed, openly. I'm sorry, but I don't see how that can EVER make ANYONE feel better, ESPECIALLY at a time like that.

I went to Catholic school most of my life. I used to go to church every Sunday. I stopped, save for the forced visits on Christmas and Easter. Me and religion didn't necessarily have a big fight or something, we both just parted ways. Like a friendship that seemed to no longer be based on the same thing, consisting of two people who are just starting to grow apart, I stopped calling.

Sometimes I miss it. Church, organized religion, a place to go every week. Sometimes I think about going back on a regular basis. I know I sort of envy those people who exhibit a strong, unwavering faith; oftentimes I'm afraid I'm too cynical to ever be like them. I try to be a goo person. I think I am. I pray. I remember what I was taught and am kind to others and every so often find myself humming church tunes to get me through. Be not afraid, I go before you, always. Come, follow me...

If only I could.

Which Obama Daughter Are You?

2008-08-26T20:44:00.006-04:00

Results:

You Are: Malia Obama

Strong, graceful, and reserved, you don't have to forcefully grab things (like microphones) to get your point across. A simple gesture, such as blowing a kiss to a television screen, help in expressing how you feel. You pride yourself on your elegance and will be most likely to maintain a fresh garden at the White House.

You Are: Sasha Obama

You don't sit around and wait for things to happen--you get right out there and determine your own destiny! Not one to wait for someone to just offer up information, you get right in there and ask ("Daddy, what city are you in?"). You are not content with allowing those above you to be in control; you use your cuteness and a sly smile to get things your way. While living at 1600 Penn Ave, you'll be hitting the bowling alley ASAP. When old enough, you may just be hitting the bars like the Bush daughters did.