Old Time Religion

Doorway of The Church of Haile Selassi I, Inc.

GRACE MERCY PRAISE WORSHIP ON THE SABBATH

When I See The Blood, I Will Pass Over Exodus 12:13 C

SAVAE sings Old Time Religion from its album Revival Tonight.

This video totally cracks me up. But I think they're being serious. Anyway, Happy Church Day.

Adventures in Decorating - 3

The additions to this brownstone are so crazy it's kind of growing on me in a weird way.

Great Expectations

Apparently, when Big Joe told people we were celebrating our anniversary last week, they looked confused, and said, "Anniversary of what?" And one person said, "Anniversary of the first time you had sex?" Do people ask gay couples that when they celebrate their anniversaries? Are anniversaries only valid when couples' unions have been legally recognized by God and state?

We celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday, just the three of us. Originally, I suggested to our housemates that we do a dinner together, but they just stared quietly into space rather than answering. Naturally, being young and single, they'd rather spend Thanksgiving with their young and single friends than with a vegetarian, non-drinking couple and their four-year-old. I ran into Gay Dad on the way to school the day before Thanksgiving and he looked appalled when I told him it was just going to be the three of us. Especially as he was cooking for 14 friends and family. I didn't have the heart to tell him there wasn't going to be a turkey either.

Then when I offered a plate of food to the one housemate of ours who'd decided to stay in and study for an upcoming exam rather than going out, she looked skeptical and wary saying, "Sure, I guess." As though I'd offered her a dish of Norwegian rat stewed in cockroach gravy. She also couldn't believe we'd eaten our Thanksgiving meal before 2pm. Her eyes lit up however when I returned with a plate of roasted garlic mashed potatoes with miso gravy, brussel sprouts, beets and green beans roasted with fresh rosemary, stuffing with cremini mushrooms and fresh sage, and sweet potato pie with whip cream. All organic and local. The two Joes and I also had Field Roast veggie sausages to round out the meal. Who needs turkey? Or booze? Or a gaggle of hungry co-diners?

This was my best Thanksgiving ever. For once I didn't stress out, or feel resentful about cooking, or worry about how our Thanksgiving compared to everyone else's. And Big Joe and I didn't get into a fight even though he and Little Joe were suffering from bad colds. In fact I was in a glorious mood. No pressure. No expectations. I attribute this wholeheartedly to my last two weeks of recovery meetings. Even though I was skeptical about going at first, I was surprised to discover a place I belong, with people who understand exactly where I'm coming from, because they've been there. The few meetings I've attended have made such an enormous difference that I want to tell everyone to go. It's like I've found God or something. And it doesn't matter whether it's for overeating, alcohol, drugs or having a relationship with someone who's abusing substances. They all work the same 12 steps. It's about bringing the focus in on yourself instead of blaming or trying to change other people. I couldn't even figure out at first which group to go to. I joked to Big Joe that what I needed was Assholes Anonymous. My first couple of meetings all I did was cry. Anyway, it seems to be making me a nicer person to be around. And for that Big and Little Joe are thankful. And I am resoundingly grateful that groups like this even exist.

So then we took the train uptown to view the Christmas windows at Bergdorf Goodman's, Barney's and Macy's, hoping that everyone else was at someone's home stuffing their faces and passing out on the couch. I find myself doing all kinds of holiday things I would never have done before I had a kid, because I thought they were too cheesy, and I had no interest in them whatsoever. But now I'm loving it. Bring on the cheese! Barney's windows were dull, dull, dull. Not one of Simon Doonan's, whom I love, better creations. Bergdorf's windows were splendid and opulent as usual but Little Joe had no interest in any windows except Macy's. No surprise. I'd even take him to see Santaland if I could find a time where there wouldn't be crushing crowds. David Sedaris' story about his brief employ there as an elf, makes me want to get a first hand look.

Speaking of crowds, we managed not to spend any money on Buy Nothing Day, or more appropriately entitled Black Friday after one poor Walmart employee in upstate NY was trampled and killed by 2000 shoppers anxious to get their hands on a good deal. Although the store alerted the cops to the masses waiting outside, the cops already had their hands full with giant crowds of excited consumers at Best Buy and Circuit City. Let me reiterate this. A man died because people just had to purchase a new LCD HDTV or a digital camera. It's understandable that someone might die should starving families stampede a food truck in a third world country. But over a television set?

Toothless Hag and Dionysian Revelers

Unusual to see a ram's head adorning a building.

The following six reliefs (what is the architectural term for these?) decorate the same brownstone:

I love that this old woman only has one tooth.

What is the story behind all of these?

The next three photos are of the same property on Kent Street, built in 1935, listed both as a funeral home and a possible home for sale. At any rate, it's sadly neglected. Hopefully its future owners, whomever they may be, won't toss out these wonderful relics.

This statue must refer to some classical myth or even a biblical tale I'm unaware of. Anyone know the story behind this?

I love these tiny doors and the raised step, even if it is just for funereal purposes.

Dionysian revelers and trash.

Politically Correct in the Stuy

MAILMAN/WOMAN PLEASE PUT MAIL'S FOR _____HALSEY ST. IN BOX

Overheard on the J Train- "Never Been Married"

These strangely androgynous and somber wedding cake figurines can be found here.

African American man in his late forties in a black puffy vest pulling a computer on a cart talking loudly on his cellphone:

What??!! I ain't married! I ain't never been married. I never will get married. My kids don't even wanna get married. My son's 31, he's a schoolteacher and he's got a condo; my daughter's a nurse. They don't have no kids. They don't wanna get married. The only way I'd get married is if I'm 90 and win the lottery and I marry some 25-year-old who wants to steal all my money!

Home Decorating

When we first saw this great sign on the Weinstein Decorating Center (below) we couldn't figure out if it was the work of an artist or the logo from a real paint company. One day I went inside and asked the woman working behind the counter. She said, "The owner was cleaning out the back room and found it and liked it so much, he put it up. It's a real paint company but it's no longer around. It's older than both you and me."

The artwork on their wall is painted by Donald Conner who painted the wonderful urban gravestone on the connecting wall.

And while we're on the subject of local hardware stores that are not Home Depot, here's another great sign.

Jack Luckner steel shelving still exists in Maspeth NY, but this sign is the last remnant of it in Bed-Stuy.

Hair

Where hip hop lives.

This one looks like it's been here forever.

Love this graphic.

Great portraits.

Simple with a diy vibe.

Urban Gravestones - 18

RIP BLACK

R.I.P. Brother

These two pieces can be found scrawled on the bodega at the corner of Halsey and Marcus Garvey. They're possibly the same person. Big Joe was wondering why the bodega owners left the one written on the window. Possibly they couldn't afford to replace the glass? Big Joe thought that perhaps whomever did it was intimidating the bodega owners, and/or the owners were afraid to remove it in case something worse might happen to their store. As sympathetic as I am to those who've died, and the ones who loved and miss them, it's a shame they chose to vandalize this property this way.

Books on the J,M,Z - 3

J,M,Z readers have been going for some challenging books lately. Something I'm afraid I'm not up for at this point in my life. In my twenties, in an effort to improve my mind, I went through a stage where I read nothing but challenging books. But after having a child and four years of sleep deprivation, all I want now is to be entertained, and maybe read a book or two that might lead the way to a little inner peace. A bunch of books I had requested from the library all came in at the same time so I'm struggling to get through all of those before they're due (two railway travel books by Paul Theroux, a book recommended by Little Joe's school social worker, Keys to Parenting Your Four Year Old by Meri Wallace, Marshall Rosenberg's Non-Violent Communication, Patricia Volk's Stuffed - The Story of a Restaurant Family, and Ira Glass' compilation - The New Kings of Non-Fiction.)

But enough about me, here's the picks of my fellow subway riders:

I Am a Strange Loop - Douglas Hofstadter - read by a sharply dressed young black man who would read a few pages and then stare out into space as if pondering what he'd just read. And no wonder, the publisher's comments start off like this:

Douglas R. Hofstadter's long-awaited return to the themes of Gödel, Escher, Bach — an original and controversial view of the nature of consciousness and identity.

What do we mean when we say "I"?

Can thought arise out of matter? Can a self, a soul, a consciousness, an "I" arise out of mere matter? If it cannot, then how can you or I be here?

Oy. Too much for me at this point in time. My head has enough stuff swirling around in it already, anymore and the lid will pop off and the contents will shoot all over the sidewalk.

In a Different Voice - Carol Gilligan - read by a balding Middle-Eastern man wearing pin-striped pants and motorcycle boots. More light reading. Not. But interesting, from Kirkus Reviews:

More firm steps Toward a New Psychology of Women - explicitly in the wake of Jean Baker Miller's keystone 1976 work, and in opposition to theories of human development (Freud, Piaget, Kohlberg, Levinson) based on a male model. What Gilligan (Harvard Graduate School of Education) has to say is unstartling: women think differently from men, and give priority to care, or responsibility, rather than to fairness, or rights ("the contrast between a self defined through separation and a self delineated through connection"). On a male-based scale of psychological or moral development, therefore, women will fall short.

Even more interesting that this man was reading it.

Dark Possession - Christine Feehan - read by a Latina in Timberlands. NY Times 'bestselling' author combines romance and the paranormal in this vampire novel. What is it about vampire literature? Not for me thanks.

Monday Mourning - Kathy Reichs - read by Asian office girl. From a review on About.com:

Her alter ego and protagonist, Temperance Brennan, is a forensic anthropologist for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the State of North Carolina and for the Laboratoire de Science Judiciaires et Médicine Légale for the province of Quebéc. She is also a professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. So is Dr. Reichs. Do not be mislead by her academic pedigree; she is equally adept as a writer.

Although that description sounds intriguing, I hate to say it, but the bookcover created in the vein of all those 'bestselling' novelists, puts me off. Plus it sounds a little too gory for me.

Scar Tissue - Anthony Kiedis - read by overweight white kid with a lip piercing and a Mets cap. Just knowing it's a rock star bio makes me want to skip it over but this review from AudioFile says it all:

Now, kids, don't do drugs. But let me tell you how great my drug-driven life was. Narrator Rider Strong does a credible job telling the life story of Red Hot Chili Peppers singer Anthony Kiedis, even though his voice sounds a bit weak in places that call for a strong delivery. But there's something disingenuous about rock stars who warn about the horrors of drug abuse while writing long-winded books describing, in minute detail, the great sex, rollicking adventures, and incredible highs they've experienced. Predictably, Kiedis's world fell apart when the realities of a life of drug abuse came crashing down. Even so, it's hard to feel sorry for a guy who's been a selfish jerk his entire life.

Rainmaker - John Grisham - read by Asian man in Northface jacket. Grisham has his avid and rabid fanbase but I'm still not interested in this lawyer thriller.

The Theory of Everything - Stephen W. Hawking - held by girl hipster (not reading, just posing?). Another book that it would hurt my head too much to read. At the moment I find the author's personal story more interesting than his work. Again from AudioFile:

Physicist Stephen Hawking suffers from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. The condition has progressed to the point where he can no longer speak for himself. Hawking, therefore, uses a voice synthesizer to deliver this series of popular lectures on black holes, current physics theories, and the nature of time and space. The synthesizer paces sentences oddly and slurs an occasional word; Hawking jokes about being unable to get rid of its American accent. However, listeners will soon adapt to the oddities of delivery, and once they do, will find themselves inspired by the sweep and clarity of Hawking's mind, and by his warmth and bravery.

Objective Hate - Troi “Star” Torain - The bookcover looked intriguing, and the description on the author's website too. But I'm put off from reading this book after reading about this controversial radio host's child rape threats:

Torain was fired from his morning show at WWPR-Power FM Wednesday for asking listeners to help him hunt down the 4-year-old daughter of WQHT-Hot 97 jock Rashawn "DJ Envy" Casey so he could sexually molest her.

Apparently he's also made several anti-Asian slurs in his shows. Hmm, what's not to dislike?

Omnivore's Dilemma - Michael Pollan - held, not read, by Asian babe while she flirted with tall blonde boy. We listened to this book which 'follows the food chains from the source to the meal' on tape during the long drive from Vancouver to Tofino this summer. Good stuff. I love Michael Pollan. But then I just love almost any food literature.

Breaking Dawn - Stephenie Meyer - Fourth in the 'Twilight' series (more vampire novels), which I never heard about until I saw the movie poster with the pretty boy actor who played Cedric Diggory in Harry Potter on Manhattan bus shelters. But apparently these books are a preteen girl phenomenon.

About a Boy - Nick Hornby - I'm also a fan of this author. Read it, enjoyed it. Worth reading even if you've seen the film.

New York Trilogy - Paul Auster - read by white girl with glasses and dreads. Although Big Joe is a fan of Auster's books, I've tried and just could never get into them.

_______- Warren Wiersbe - didn't catch the title on this one, but as Billy Graham calls him "one of the greatest Bible expositors of our generation," it doesn't matter what the title is, to me anyway.

Making Friday the 13th: The Legend of Camp Blood - David Grove - read by tattooed greasy long haired dude in a plaid shirt. I can't abide horror films, even if they're cheesy, I get terrible nightmares. But I am interested in the filmmaking process. And the way this guy was talking so excitedly to his friend about this book, makes me actually want to pick up a copy.

Romance Bed-Stuy Style

As Big Joe and I are celebrating our 6th anniversary of non-marital bliss this evening, I leave you with this surprising visit of Cinderella's magical coach which appeared a couple of nights ago in our neighbourhood. She and her prince were gone long before midnight, but I assume the coach has returned to pumpkin form and the horses back to white mice by now. Our evening transport won't be quite as exciting (J train) but we intend to have an evening just as romantic.

No Kidding

I'm not sure what the first line of the this sign says, but as Big Joe pointed out, these seats are perfect for "drinking in front of the premises."

I liked the 'loafing' part of the sign. "Who says that?" I asked Big Joe. He, of course, said "Everybody." I don't think I've ever heard anyone say 'loafing' except in movies from the fifties. I assume there ought to be an emphatic 'NO' preceding this, but none is visible beneath that translucent piece of paper.

This sign, however, is blatantly clear.

Bed-Stuy Architectural Digest - 8

When I saw this building I was utterly mystified. Was it old? Or was it new? Or a weird combination of the two? The columns in the doorway, one tipping slightly to the left, seem to be from another era, as do the French style windows. Yet overall, the mix of different type of bricks, possibly fake stucco and cheap iron work point in the Fedders type of monstrosity. Only there are no exposed air conditioning units. Further research just turned up that one tenant was a high end eco-cleaning business, another tenant gave $250 to the Obama campaign, and that these "luxury condos" are listed from $399,000 to $514,000. That's half a million bucks! To live in such an ugly building. I don't get it. I could care less about the jacuzzi tub, elevator and superintendent. The supers in my last building were not super. One was consistently drunk and could reliably be found nearly passed out in the bar around the corner, another, who was supposed to fix the leak in my shower, damaged the faucet and beyond repair and tore a huge hole in the wall. Anyway enough about that. Here's some buildings I do like....

How gorgeous is that detailing!

Not so grand perhaps, but it's nice to see the old shingles not replaced by metal siding.

I'm not quite sure how I feel about this one, but I do find the Spanish(?) influence appealing.

While the owner of this building has a definite message for prospective buyers and inquisitive onlookers:

Sick Days

I've been sick with bronchitis. In fact, while I was modeling for a fashion drawing class yesterday, one of the students with verbal diarrhea, loudly announced, "Someone in the this room is coughing, sneezing and blowing her nose, and definitely should not be here," and gave me a nasty look.

Then today, during drenching rains, the gutter above my window which was full of autumn leaves overflowed and rain poured in through every crevice of my window and the surrounding frame. So there I am standing on my table in my pajamas holding up a dripping wet towel against the window as my computer and printer get rained on, dirty water soaks my hair and I'm crying, cursing and hacking up phlegm, and praying for the rain to stop. Thankfully it did. Then Big and Little Joe came home from their outing (Big Joe had taken our son out so I could get some rest) and Big Joe cleaned out the gutter. So now my computer and I are recovering and are taking the weekend off from blogging. See y'all Monday.

Urban Wildlife

Big Joe suggested I do this post on the footprints our rat neighbours left in a wet patch of cement he'd applied to inhibit the weeds from growing in next to our stoop. He thought it was interesting since people track animals in the wild, that we'd inadvertently obtained permanent documentation of our urban wildlife. Although vegetarian, we do kill mosquitoes, and when mice come into our house when the weather turns cold, I buy the traps, bait and set them, then Big Joe disposes of the corpses. However while I kill flies, Big Joe, since he started meditating and going to dharma talks, will gently urge a fly to leave, and then open the window and coax it out. Last year, though, for me, Big Joe discovered a huge rat in our basement and knowing that I'd never be able to sleep if I knew it was down there, bludgeoned it to death with a two by four. Now that's true love.

At our monthly house meeting and cleaning day, one of our tenants asked us, in addition to moving the smoke alarm to a place where it won't be set off by them cooking dinner, to please get rid of the rats because the proliferation of rat droppings in the garden was ruining his outdoor cigarette and coffee time. As if we have any control over the rat population in our neighbourhood, aside from keeping our trash cans closed and our compost pile free of animal by-products. We have called 311 repeatedly about the rat problem, and our complaints have been filed. As Big Joe says, our responsibility as landlords is to keep the rats out of our house.

But rats aren't exclusively a Bed-Stuy problem. Far from it. One of our favourite Manhattan playgrounds in SoHo, a swank spot attended by expensively clad white children and their Eurotrash parents (we like it because it's next to Ben's Pizza), we refer to as the "Rat-hole Playground" because there's a pretty little circular garden near the entrance that is full of holes and tunnels and a 'Danger: Baited Area' sign on the post in the middle. Little Joe once lost a ball down one of these holes and was utterly distraught when we refused to go get it for him.

Anyway, for fun, here's a few articles on rats in New York. First of all, facts about rat tracks from the University of Auckland:

A rat has four (five) toes on the front (hind) foot. The front toes are evenly distributed and hind central three toes are normally bunched and parallel. Rat footprints are fairly circular in shape, and if a line is connected between two end toes on the front or hind foot, the line should bisect or lie behind the central pad.

And on their eating preferences from the NY Times:

They like to eat well, if they can. According to Dr. Wharton, "They're really interested in creating a balanced meal." Steak or chicken would be sensible first choices, and they're pizza fans. They'll take tofu. They'll take moo shu pork. They like sweets, and will lap up coffee with sugar in it. They'll drink Coke. They'll drink beer or wine. Will they get drunk? "Probably," is Dr. Wharton's guess.

The resourceful thing about rats is that while they will eat everything that humans will, they will also eat things that humans won't. They won't eat rancid food, because it makes them sick and they are incapable of regurgitating. But they'll dine on vegetable matter from trees. They'll eat seeds. They'll eat insects. They'll eat animal droppings. Perhaps the one wonderful thing you can say for rats: They'll eat roaches.

There's a comprehensive collection of various rat articles from the web in the Gotham Gazette while they urge us to clean up our trash to keep the rat population down:

Cities can strengthen their program by aggressively enforcing garbage codes. Some, Kaukeinen said, have replaced the black plastic garbage bags piled at the curbside with rollout bins where people must place their garbage. No such proposal, though, appears to be in the works for New York City.

Changing behavior would also help. "We want rats to go away but we keep trash under our desks. We want the city to kill the rats, but we throw McDonald's bags out the car window," Corrigan has said. "This is a big complex problem for which there is no easy solution."

Discerning the difference between wild rats and domestic rats in case any of you animal lovers were considering keeping some as pets from Rat Help (my cousin, a militant vegan, has kept pet rats for years and even shared custody of her rats with her ex):

Can a wild rat survive in the home?

Yes and no. Putting any wild animal in a confined setting is very stressful to that animal and can shorten his life immensely (not to mention reduce any chance of a good quality of life). A wild rat, in general, isn't going to make a very good pet either. Sometimes litters are found outside and thought to be neglected by their mother and brought inside by an individual with good intensions, nursed by that individual or a wildlife rehabber, and found to be lacking in the instinct department after all is said and done. But it's a very fine line and one that is always under heavy debate. In general, though the intentions may be good, it's best to leave wild animals to wild settings and domesticated animals in the home.

And lastly, from an interview with Robert Sullivan on Powells.com from his book, Rats: Observations on the History and Habitat of the City's Most Unwanted Inhabitants:

We think rats are disgusting, but they're not. They're just another creature. It's not their fault they live in our garbage. In fact, our garbage is our fault, if there's any fault. The reason people are so disgusted by rats is that rats point to what is disgusting about us. We always have to have something bad in our sights to highlight our goodness. You need evil so that good can exist. Really, in nature, it can seem evil, but it's not.

Courtesy and Profanity

Courtesy

PLEASE DO NOT USE PROFANITY

I love these faded signs from another time. The sentiments they express seem wonderfully old-fashioned in our present age of too much information, where every other word is a curse word and nothing is shocking any longer. For instance, the new ad campaign on the subway for Remy Martin, must have been done by the same ad agency as the tasteless ones for Bud Light. This one features women and men in suggestive scenes that imply a threesome, s&m, and sex clubs in dungeons. My four year old didn't understand what they meant, but the one with the two women and the chain necklace scares him so much, "That lady looks like she's going to choke the other lady!" he makes me turn his stroller around to face the other side of the train so he doesn't have to look at it. I wish I didn't have to look at these ads either. Not because they're shocking, but because they offend me esthetically.

Although, thankfully, we haven't lost courtesy altogether. Today, coming home on the train, someone offered to help carry my stroller complete with heavy sleeping child at almost every stairway in the subway, and I had to change trains twice. And it was rush hour. Plus people actually stepped aside when I was trying to exit the train, instead of piling in before I could move out. I think the outcome of the election has put people in a better mood. I know I'm feeling more positive about everything in general.

More Food Art

I particularly like the jar of pickles on this one.

I once was in a show where I framed my photos in neon. These handwritten signs remind of that, only they're better.

Is that a cream bun in the middle? Does this bodega have a bakery too?

Sweet Express Open 24 Hours. My kind of place. Love those photo-shopped donuts.

And my favourite, the crazy hot cup of coffee.

Penguin, St. Nick and Moose

Of course, once Halloween had come and gone I discovered a really creepy Halloween ghoul, unless, judging by the posters in the window, it was an Anti-McCain ghoul.

Temperature's dropping and this penguin is a sign of the weather to come.

The great thing about not taking down your Christmas decorations, is that you've got the jump on everyone else the following year.

I'm not quite sure what moose have to do with Christmas, but this moose didn't make it past the gate to even try to cross the street. Or perhaps no one told him that Sarah Palin's gone back to Wasilla and it's safe to come out now. Hopefully the predictions are wrong and she won't rise rise up again in 2012.

Today's Local News - Gay-Ass Yuppie Hipster Scum

Ever since I reinstated comments on my blog, I've been enjoying the variety of feedback, and starting to wonder why I ever took them down in the first place. And then I got this lovely email. I would post it in its entirety, but it's rambling and disjointed, so I think I'll just give you the highlights. To begin with, "Alex" flatters me with the title, "Gay-Ass Yuppie Hipster Scum." Seeing as my gay friends are successful and attractive, yuppies are affluent, and hipsters are stylish, what's not to like? Well, scum, I suppose, but as scum rises to the surface, he/she must be talking about my survival instincts. Sometimes I wish I could claim all those wonderful labels, but unfortunately, I can't. And then he/she credits me as the reason "50,000 blacks* have moved out of Brooklyn." I don't exactly know where this interesting statistic comes from, but who knew I had that much influence? And where did they go? Manhattan? Queens? California, perhaps.

But then just when my head is about to explode with all that praise, he/she tells me "I hope you, your son, and your husband get hit by a stray bullet" and that if it wasn't for Giuliani building up the police force, he/she'd be mugging me right now. Oh boy. If anyone needs a day off, a big piece of chocolate cake and a hug, it's this very angry person. I mean, come on. I write a little blog that only a hundred or so people read regularly (not many, considering the population of New York City), plus another seventy who stumble upon it while Googling pit bull puppies. A couple of people have written to say my blog helped them adjust to their recent move to Bed-Stuy. But no one has ever told me that they, or anyone they know, has moved out of our neighbourhood because of the pictures I've posted, or anything I've written. I think that would be rather silly. My little family and I are just quietly living our lives, going to preschool, making art, taking out the trash, talking to the neighbours, and walking around a neighbourhood we've grown to love.

A white man who moved to Bed-Stuy six months ago, recently added his comments to my post on the NY Times assessment of our hood. He said he dates a black girl and they've had stones thrown at them in our hood. Stones. By some miracle, this country has managed to elect a black president, son of a black immigrant father from Kenya and a white mother. And yet people are throwing rocks at this mixed race couple. While I receive an email that threatens not just me, but my four-year-old son, simply because of my hideous crime of being a non-black person who moved to a mostly black neighbourhood. What's that about? This country was built on immigrants. The only people who have a right to be angry about anyone 'moving in and taking over' are the Native Americans, something we tend to conveniently forget about at Thanksgiving while we're gorging on dead turkeys.

Last week I happily passed my U.S. Citizenship test (more about that later), fulfilling the dream my father had when he and my mother emigrated from Indonesia in the sixties. At the time the U.S. wasn't accepting poor immigrants from Indonesia while Canada was. So off to Canada they went. And my mother, at least, never regretted it. Now here I am, a few IRS documents and a swearing-in ceremony away from being a U.S. citizen. Adding my banananess to a very full melting pot. And every person of every colour is what makes this country great. It's a nation of immigrants. Dear "Alex", if you want that hug, it's waiting for you. Just let me know.

*Interestingly, "Alex" who protests my blog on behalf of all black people in Brooklyn, states that he/she is not black themselves.

The Finest in Tree Protection

Basic.

Magical.

Heavy Duty and Decorative.

Shakoor's Sweet Tooth

Lovely young man (on left) and Shakoor (on right)

Having what can only be described as a diabolical sweet tooth, I'm always delighted to find a place to fulfill my cravings. However my homeopath had me on a no sugar, no flour, low carb diet for four weeks - to be continued indefinitely. I'm already a bit of a health nut as it is, but I revere my homeopath as she has cured many ills in our family. So if she told me to go pre-dawn to Prospect Park everyday and collect young dandelion leaves to make a tea, I would. Besides this vegetarian Atkin's diet did such wonders for my health, I'm reluctant to go back to my old wicked ways. Except for one thing, I love food. I read cookbooks or cook's biographies while dining, am usually planning the next meal or snack before I've finished the one in my mouth, and can't pass a gourmet food store without going in, 'for a quick look.'

During our recent weekly walk around the neighbourhood, I spied a sign in a bakery window advertising "Sugar Free Cheesecake." Now my experience with "sugar free" desserts has been uniformly bad, but I thought, no sugar, low flour, high protein - it's definitely worth checking out. And that's how I ended up inside Shakoor's Sweet Tooth Bakery. The gentle young man behind the counter informed me that the Sugar Free Cheesecake was sweetened with Splenda, and since I don't do artificial sweeteners that cancelled that idea. But then I started reading all the articles on the walls from the Daily News and the NY Times about Shakoor being an ex-con who made good, that I just had to support this local business. And besides that sweet potato butter pound cake on the counter was screaming out my name.

So I ran back outside to where Big Joe and Little Joe sleeping in the stroller were waiting and grabbed my wallet. When I returned, not only had the young man cut a hefty chunk of cake off for me, but he cut off a little extra and put it on a napkin, "For your husband, since he's waiting out in the cold with the stroller." So I was already in love with the place, cake untasted and snapped this photo of the lovely young man, Christopher, and the owner, Shakoor. And lucky for Big Joe and me that I did get that cake because it was pure heaven, light, fluffy, not too sweet, rich and delicious. They also have comfort food like Mac n Cheese on their dinner menu and are known for their sweet potato cheesecake, which I'm clearly going to have to return for:

Shakoor has kept the same recipe handed down to him by his mother, that brought The Watsons from a $10 mixer to a bustling storefront operation. The bakery goes through about 120 pounds of sweet potatoes a week with the exception of around Thanksgiving and Christmas when it triples. " Most of our customers purchase the sweet potato cheese cake instead of the traditional sweet potato pie, so our orders triple around the same time,"explains Shakoor.

Shakoor's mother, Mrs. Watson, who was his inspiration to become a baker remembers fondly,"When I was coming up in South Carolina, sweet potatoes were all we ate at times. We use to boil sweet potatoes, and then stewed 'em." She beams proudly," I taught all my children how to cook, but Shakoor turned out to be the best baker, so when I started working in a bakery, I got Shakoor involved too."

And as Thanksgiving is just around the corner, you might want to check out the sweet potato cheesecake for yourself. Oh, and Shakoor informed me that they are currently seeking a kitchen assistant too.

Shakoor's Sweet Tooth
305 Halsey Street (between Throop + Marcus Garvey)
Brooklyn, 11216
718-574-2580

Hours: Tues-Sat 12-9

Liquor Man

As this election drew to a close, I was thinking about how if Obama won, people would probably drink to excess in celebration, whereas if McCain won, people might get drunk to drown their woes.

Coming home a few weeks ago, I passed by our neighbour, Ebony, who's been looking for work for months without any luck. Being buddies with Magnifico, who's best friend is the bottle, Ebony is inclined to join him in seeking liquid solace. Ebony, however, has attended AA and was dry for several months but went back to drinking when his girlfriend, with whom he recently had a baby, kicked him out and got a new man. A few weeks I saw him sitting on his stoop and I asked him how the job hunt was going. He responded, "I was supposed to work for this guy on the next block this morning, but I missed it. I guess you shouldn't drink on the day you're starting a new job." I found his revelation to be both funny and so very sad at the same time.

When I told Big Joe I was doing a series on old liquor store signs in Bed-Stuy, he suggested I look up a Public Enemy song on the 'liquor man.' I don't know if the song, 1 Million Bottlebags, is the one he meant, but it seems appropriate to the devastation alcohol can wreak in low income neighbourhoods:

One million bottlebags count 'em
Think they can bounce the ounce
And it get 'em
Yo black spend 288 million
Sittin' there waitin' for the fizz
And don't know what the fuck it is
An oh lemme tell you 'bout shorty
He about seventeen lookin' like 40
Treats his 40 dog better than his g
When he gets a big b-o-t-t-l-e
Oh he loves tha liquor
But look watch shorty get sicker
Year after year
While he's thinkin' it's beer
But it's not but he got it in his gut
So what the fuck
Yo niga what's up
Now he's hostile to a brother lookin' out
But I ain't mad I know what he about
He's just a slave to the bottle and the can
'Cause that's his man
The malt liquor man
One million bags count 'em all
Other man gets happy
Watch the killas drink 8 ball
Don't know a damn thing
But his breath stinkin'
Then I ask a question you brother
What the fuck is you drinkin'
He don't know but it flow
Out the bottle in a cup
He call it gettin' fucked up
Like we ain't fucked up already
See the man they call Crazy Eddie
Liquor man with the bottle in his hand
He give the liquor man ten to begin
Wit' no change and he run
To get his brains rearranged
Serve it to the home they're able
To do without a table
Beside what's inside ain't on the label
They drink it thinkin' it's good
But they don't sell the shit in the white neighborhood
Exposin' the plan they get mad at me I understand
They're slaves to the liquor man
Back to my homeboy shorty
He can drink it down
And think nuttin' about it
Pass it around and get tha 40 dog buzz
At the same time
Shorty can't remember what day it was
Say I'm yellin' is fact
Genocide kickin' in yo back
How many times have you seen
A black fight a black
After drinkin' down a bottle
Or a malt liquor six-pack
Malt liquor bull
What it is is bullshit Colt
45 another gun to the brain
Who's sellin' us pain
In the hood another up to no good
Plan that's designed by the other man
But who drink it like water
One and on till the stores reorder it
Brothers cry broke but they still affordin' it
Sippin' it lick drink it down oh nooo
Drinkin' poison but they don't know
It used to be wine
A dollar and a dime
Same man, drink in another time
They could be hard as hell and don't give a damn
But still be a sucker to the liquor man

The Dawn of a New Era

I bought the NY Daily News for the first time ever this morning after dropping my kid off at school. The NY Times was sold out and I refused to buy the NY Post since they supported McCain. But I needed something concrete in my hand recording this historic event. And something to put in Little Joe's baby book. Reading their account of the last few hours of the election on the train back home, I wept again. Then at the Myrtle Station I noticed the above words written on the board behind the black female token booth clerk. As I snapped the photo, she turned around to look at what I was photographing and then we both flashed each other huge giddy grins.

When I was pregnant with Little Joe, my good friend Stephanie, who's an amazing writer and one of the strongest and bravest people I know, said to me, "You're so brave bringing a child into this world." Well the world is changing. For the better. Barack Obama being elected president is a clear sign of that. He's given us hope for a better tomorrow. Big Joe says this is a big blow to his cynicism, that he's never been inspired by a president before in his life, that until today he had no faith in the political process. And that it makes him want to say, "Sorry I've been so cynical, now what can I do to help?" And that's the bottom line, for after the celebrations are over, the real work begins. Now what can we do to help?

PRESIDENT OBAMA!!!

Photo: Damon Winter/The New York Times

Outside our windows here in Bed-Stuy, fireworks are going off, people are screaming "OBAMA!" and cars are in a honking frenzy. I'm weeping in joy and wonder. Our first black president. Elected not because he's black, but because he's the best person for the job. However, it still seems nothing short of miraculous. I know his grandmother is smiling at him from the heavens at this very moment. As a soon-to-be American citizen who was not able to vote, I want to thank each and every person who did get out and voted for Barack Obama. This is a country I'm excited and thankful to be a part of. Now perhaps my fellow Canadians won't look so askance at me when I tell them I'm switching over.

City Kids Go to the Farm

So while we're all chewing our fingernails waiting for the election results, let me tell you a story about Little Joe's recent school trip to the Farm. Now I grew up in Vancouver, Canada which is a city surrounded by nature with magnificent mountains, beaches and enormous Stanley Park full of ancient trees. However, for the farm experience we had "Outdoor School," which consisted of a week up in the B.C. interior staying in log cabins, watching the salmon swim upstream, shearing sheep, canoeing, hiking, going for blindfolded walks in the woods, square dancing, archery and the requisite songs around the campfire. In my years in New York, I've volunteered with various organizations which have taken city kids to Bear Mountain and other nearby nature spots where we've done one or two of those same activities, and it wasn't too far off from the experience I had as a kid. However, this day trip to the Farm with Little Joe's preschool was something else altogether.

It was a crisp fall morning. Our school bus arrived in the Farm's parking lot (pictured above) which must have contained 50 school buses. Our guide was "Farmer Mike," a white rotund moustached man in his early fifties, wearing a yellow sweatshirt with the farm's logo over a bomber jacket. Similarly attired 'farmers' led a multitude of mostly kids of colour in lines that snaked in and around the frozen tundra (it seemed to be 20 degrees colder at the Farm than in Manhattan.) Farmer Mike informed us that the Farm processed 4000 children a day.

A sow lay on her side in a tiny cage with only room for her and her brood of snorting piglets who vyed for a better suckling spots in between being picked up by the 'farmers,' in order to demonstrate what it sounds like when a piglet squeals.

Individual cows spaced ten feet apart, were tied to metal posts with a feed bucket under their mouths while hundreds of children lined up to squeeze a designated udder, and were warned in strict tones not to get behind the cow where she does her 'business.' We were also warned at five minute intervals, that if we touched the animals to not put our hands in our mouths. Other metal posts spaced ten feet apart had anti-bacterial lotion dispensers attached to them.

There was a hayride that carried a 100 kids at a time, pulled by a tractor which took us through a football field. Then we stopped to eat the lunches we'd packed on the long wooden benches painted in primary colors under a big tent. Some chose to eat in the sunshine next to the line of thirty port-a-potties, preferring the chemical stench of the potties' air fresheners to the cold in the shade.

Finally, the piece de resistance, a pony ride where two men helped each child on to a pony which was led around a tiny gated circle by unhappy looking Mexicans. At the front of the line was a large kid, who judging by his peers couldn't have been more than five years old, but was the height of a twelve year old with an accumulation of several man-sized meals under his belt. The two men strained to lift him on to the pony, and I swear the pony's knees buckled slightly under his weight. I would have felt sorrier for the pony had I not caught the look of pure ecstasy on the child's face. He looked like this pony ride was the moment he'd been waiting for all his life.

Then it was time to go pumpkin 'picking,' as each child chose a pumpkin from the several five foot high piles of pumpkins in the parking lot. As we reboarded the bus with tired and happy children, I thought of the boy on the pony. Even though this factory Farm seemed to me to be about as far from a real farm experience as one could get, if it could bring one child that much joy, then they must be doing something right.

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE TODAY !!!!

To find your polling place, click here. The polling place will be open from 6:00 am to 9:00 pm.

Who is Owen Banks?

This unusual painting adorns a brownstone on the south side of the neighbourhood.

Although the artist's name is written on top, I can't find anything about this person on the internet. Who is Owen Banks?

Security Risks: Fork versus Camera

There are a list of documents I need to bring with me for my citizenship interview. One of them is, if you have ever been detained or arrested by a law enforcement officer for any reason, even if no charges were filed, you need to bring an official document showing this. Well several years ago I was given a ticket for illegal postering in the East Village, went to court, given a couple of months probation, and the charges were dropped.

So one morning last week I went to the Criminal Court building at 100 Centre Street to get a copy of my disposition. I was prepared for long lines and the usual irate and rude attitude that seems to accompany personnel at jobs of this ilk. However, I was pleasantly surprised. At the entrance where the two black female security guards x-rayed my bag, they called me 'sweetheart,' were all smiles and apologetic that they had to hold on to my camera until I left. The black female guard whom I had to ask directions from was equally pleasant. The Latino man who handled dispositions was also jovial and seemed genuinely sad that he couldn't help me out when my name didn't show up in his computer.

Turned out I was in the wrong building and actually had to go to their other location at 346 Broadway where everyone there was rude. The black female guard who x-rayed my bag and told me to remove my bamboo fork was annoyed and disgusted with me when I asked if I could have it back when I left. The older white male security guard I asked directions from tried to hit on me, "What's your background?" he said leering at me and standing way too close. "You Japanese?" And the white woman who finally gave me my disposition was abrupt and perfunctory and refused to make eye contact.

It seemed odd that the people essentially working the same jobs could be so different from one building to the other. This, however, was my experience as an Asian woman with English as my first language. At the first criminal court building I was struck by how all the people in the long line awaiting dispositions, were black. Now we know that crimes are not only, nor primarily, done by black people. So this line just seemed to be a blatant example of the police department employing racial profiling. Where were people of other races? Big Joe said they could afford lawyers. (And on another topic, why was a camera considered dangerous at the first building but not my fork, and vice versa at the second?)

Every time I have to be in the system, from dealing with almost losing my Medicaid, to the line at the unemployment office, renewing my driver's license, going for a greencard interview, getting married at City Hall, and now this, that's when I truly feel like a New Yorker. Being with the people who sit in the waiting rooms and lines with me at those places suffering under the indignities of red tape, bureaucracy, and official rudeness - that, to me is the real New York. At the first building where everything went swimmingly for me, one man clearly did not have a similar experience. This black man in his early thirties exited the disposition room, paced angrily up and down the narrow hallway, and addressed everyone waiting in line in a loud voice:

"It's always our people. They don't know how to talk to you. You need a cracker to get anything done. It's the coloured folk who say 'Six pages! You're too late.' Too late! You're still on the clock, it's not lunch time. I don't care if its 4:30!"

The man behind me in line was the only one making eye contact with the mad ranter and nodding fiercely in agreement. He added, "4:59!"

The mad ranter continued, "You on the clock! Do your job."

The man behind me said, "I know, I was born and grew up in the south."

The mad ranter continued, "They talk to you like that then they call these guys to babysit them," pointing at a tall elderly white police officer with a handle bar moustache, who wandered over and was standing solicitously by with his arms crossed in front of his chest, not making eye contact with the mad ranter.

A white woman in a skirt suit comes down the hall and addresses the mad ranter, "I'm so sorry I can't find it."

The mad ranter compliments her on doing her job right and thanks her. She returns to the office. Then he continues, "You see? She ran down to the basement. The coloured folk just sit here and say 'You're too late. Come back tomorrow.'"

Brooklyn At Eye Level

I received this email this evening:

The Civilians want to hear from you. Brooklyn is changing fast. We are creating BROOKLYN AT EYE LEVEL a theater show inspired by interviews about the transformation of Brooklyn and the controversial Atlantic Yards Project. If you have something to say about the communities surrounding the proposed project (Downtown, Ft. Greene, Clinton Hill, Crown Heights, Prospect Heights; Park Slope), we want to listen. We want to talk to long-term residents, recent arrivals, players in the Atlantic Yards story, as well as those who work or live in the area. Eager to hear from all perspectives. If you want to be interviewed send us an email with a little information about yourself to Michael Premo, Project Coordinator: Premo(at)thecivilians(dot)org. For more information: www.brooklynateyelevel.org . These interviews will be performed along with original music and dance by Urban Bush Women live at the Brooklyn Lyceum, December 4th – 7th.

Personally, I don't have the time, but if you do, it sounds interesting and worthwhile to have your views presented in such a creative way.

Knock HARD, Do Not Bang

UPS KNOCK HARD or RING ALL BELLS HARD continuously!
Press or ring ALL bells HARD!! or KNOCK Real HARD! on the DOOR

WARNING !!
DO NOT BANG ON APTS. WINDOWS
SUPER