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This video was posted at Flavorpill several months ago. Very cool version of NYC in miniature, like a toy city:



Also, via [livejournal.com profile] noir_moll, more of Brandon Bird's hilarious, brilliant Law & Order art. This time Bird got other artists to interpret one-line episode synopses, and thus we have These Are Their Stories. This one, entitled "Benson Combats Terrorist Activities," (by artist Sina Grace) is one of my faves because it perfectly captures that Oliskan megalomania:

Photobucket

"Save the children! Save the world...FROM MY UNPRETTY CRYING!"
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For [livejournal.com profile] mantaraggio, Queens residents, and Jews everywhere:

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So I'm doing this tumblr thing....mainly because I liked the format and thought it would be a good place to put random music and pictures in a sort of online scrapbook--it's pretty handy for uploading stuff like that. We'll see if it really takes, though. But all my write-y and rambling nonsense will continue to be posted here. Like the following:

Last night I was in the bedroom channel-surfing. I had the back door leading out to the deck/backyard open, since it was a nice night, when suddenly the cat went into stealth mode and darted across the floor with a speed and determination that he has not demonstrated since the Clinton administration. (He's old.) Growling and hissing, he raised himself on hind legs--again, something not witnessed in eons--and plastered himself to the screen door.

Initially I had thought that one of the neighborhood strays had taken up residence on the fire escape near the deck (earlier that weekend we had seen a stray cat in the yard)--from my vantage point I saw a furry, bulky creature lounging there, settling into taunt mode as Bo the cat continued growling at it. I called for the missus to witness this miracle--look, the old fat bastard is agitated, and not over wet food, either!. She came out to the bedroom door, took one close look at the critter on the fire escape, squeaked in panic, pried the cat away from the door and shut it quickly.

"Don't you know what that was?" she cried.

That's when I realized: It was a raccoon. In Brooklyn.

I had read several reports of raccoon sightings (and breakings & enterings too--they will do anything to get at food) in the borough but had, of course, that stereotypical NIMBY (not in my backyard!) reaction of the urban white dweller to the various annoying/vaguely threatening aspects of city life. But yes, here in my backyard, a raccoon grows in Brooklyn.
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Radiohead + homage to La Jetee = mockingly beautiful!
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Am I the only person on the planet who doesn't give a rat's ass about anything remotely connected to Harry Potter, whether it be book or movie or Gary Oldman's facial hair or a porn remake (Harry Potter and the Purple Double-Headed Dildo)? Please, somebody!

Yesterday we went to NYC's annual Bastille Day celebration. I always try to justify my enjoyment of the holiday by telling people I am partly of French descent (c'est vrai! une petite!) but really, I just want to drink the booze (wine tasting! That's the one, Pats!) and eat the eclairs (should have tried to coffee ones) and not piss off any of the testy expats too badly. Sadly we did not encounter any Lillet vendors on our meanderings through the hot, crowded street fair. Quelle trauma!

On the way to the faux guillotine, we shared our subway car with some chatty Mets fan on their way to the game. These were serious Brooklyn dudes, big guys with big bellies and FDNY couture. At one point, the conversation turned to...hair. Apparently, even straight men talk about their hair. The skinniest of the guys was describing a potential hairstyle:

guy 1: ...and take a bit off here [gesturing]...

guy 2: What, you want to look like a fruit?

guy 1: [long pause] Uh....

guy 2: I mean, God bless, it's all good.

So I'm wondering if this signals a genuine shift in attitudes among the mainstream, or another example of the classic New York "live and let live" attitude, or a guy simply trying to placate his buddy about his faggy hairstyle choices. Or maybe all of them. Vive la difference, or vive la Lillet at any rate.

ETA: Okay, so we have here one 10-year-old girl and her father who are NOT wild about Harry.
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New York's mayor, Mike Bloomberg, announced earlier that he is abandoning the Republican Party: Adieu, Darth Cheney! This means I can finally admit that I kind of like the guy, and I like (for the most part) the things he is trying to accomplish for the city.

This does fuel speculation that he may run for President next year, as an Independent, although he continues to insist otherwise. (The article describes Bloomberg as "coy" and no other word can be so aptly applied to him in the past few weeks, as he has danced around the issue.) If so I think he may be a serious candidate to be reckoned with--if only because he has pots of money, and he comes across as more palatable to the mainstream than other notable Independent candidates (e.g., Perot, Nader), not to mention creepy former NYC mayors who exploit their grand moments of leadership during 9/11 and who shall remain nameless.

It could be a very interesting race.

In the meanwhile, to my spouse's confusion/amusement, I grow obsessed with NY City Council Speaker Christine Quinn (who is openly gay) and her pearl necklace. Almost every time I see her on the news, she is wearing the pearls. Example:



Quinn: Don't worry. The pearls, they're lucky. No one will ask about the black guy you shot 41 times.

Police Commissioner: Hey, is there a black guy right behind me now? Shit!

Quinn: Yeah, he'll pop a cap in your ass, muthafucka.

Bloomberg: THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED IF EVERYONE WOULD LISTEN TO ME ABOUT GUN CONTROL.

Of course, this morning (or perhaps it was yesterday morning), I noticed she was not wearing the pearls. Is this a sign, Christine? We, your adoring groupies (well, me, actually) want to know.
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Today's complaint: Another great independent bookstore is closing. It was bad enough to see NYC lose a lot of its independent gay bookstores (A Different Light, the Oscar Wilde Bookstore in the Village), now this. It makes me want to go buy stuff at my favorite downtown bookstore. Must. Resist. "But holy, you always said you wanted a complete set of Proust..." Stop it right there, sister!

Today's amusement (which you won't appreciate unless you're a fan of the U.S. version of The Office): Battlestar Office-ica.

Once upon a time I had composed lyrics to the BSG theme, which I would sing at the beginning of every episode I saw, in my best Lisa Gerrard meets Edina Monsoon voice:

It's the Battlestar...Galactica!
We blow things up.
Cylons have sex.

Battlestar. Oh.


(Sorry, [livejournal.com profile] badtyler, I haven't been able to find the lyrics to my other hit, "Me and Robert Downey"...)
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Enough Rome photos for now! Check out this.

Even after living here for over 10 years, I still get a little giddy going over that beautiful bridge.
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Broadway is a street; it is also a neighborhood, an atmosphere....Since she had turned seventeen, however, she had liked only to walk around or stand on street corners with crowds moving about her. She would stay all afternoon and sometimes until it was dark. But it was never dark there: the lights that had been running all day grew yellow at dusk, white at night, and the faces, those dream-trapped faces, revealed the most to her then. Anonymity was part of the pleasure, but while she was no longer Grady McNeil, she did not know who it was that replaced her, and the tallest fires of her excitement burned with a fuel she could not name. She never mentioned it to anyone, those pearl-eyed perfumed Negroes, those men, silk- or sailor-shirted, toughs or pale-toothed and lavender-suited, those men who watched, smiled, followed: Which way are you going? Some faces, like the lady who changed money at Nick's Amusements, were faces that belonged nowhere, were green shadows under green eyeshades, evening effigies embalmed and floating in the caramel-sweet air. Hurry. Doorway megaphones, frenziedly hurling into the glare sad roars of rhythm, accelerated the senses to collapse: run--out of the white into the real, the sexless, the jazzless, the joyful dark. These infatuating terrors she had told to no one.

~ from Summer Crossing, Truman Capote, an excerpt of which appeared in the New Yorker issue of Oct. 24.
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Wow, he really was the people's pope.
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U2 gives a free concert near my home turf...and where am I? At fucking work. Later in the day one of my coworkers reported seeing the flatbed carrying Bono et al. cruising down Broadway. She didn't know who they were, and had to ask the hipster dude standing next to her at the stoplight who the hell were the weirdos in the truck.

The Columbus Circle subway station has always been quite the hub of activity with regard to literal spamming: There is always someone there passing out flyers about something. For a long time, the underground area that I walk through was dominated by Jews for Jesus. Now the Falun Gong appear to have taken their spot. I keep imagining brilliantly choreographed turf wars a la West Side Story. Could a love story be far behind? "Falun Gong...I just met a chick from Falun Gong...and suddenly that name...will never be the same..."

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