Today's Local News: Child Muggers and Citizen Superheroes

Japanese Self-Defense Techniques

On Thursday night, around 9pm, one of our housemates, a petite woman, was mugged two blocks away from the Myrtle subway Station. Her attackers were two young boys. The bigger one, whom she guessed to be about 13 years old but who was still an inch taller than her, grabbed her from behind in a choke hold, forcing her to the ground. She was carrying a bag with school books and a purse. Her purse slipped off her shoulder as she fell. The smaller one, whom she figured was no older than eight years old, grabbed her purse and the boys took off running down a side street.

However, although tiny, our housemate also happens to be a long distance runner and she wasn't giving up that easily. As the boys didn't appear to be armed, she chased after them. Half a block later she spied a female cyclist riding towards her down the street and yelled something to the effect of, "Get those kids, they stole my bag!" The cyclist spun around and cut off the boys at the end of the block. When our housemate arrived there seconds later, the cyclist handed her back her purse, saying she just stopped them and demanded that they give her the purse. Which, surprisingly, they did.

Our housemate is white. The boys were black. And the cyclist, who turned out to be a bike messenger, was also black. Whether this mugging was race related is unknown. However, a white man, who lives down our block, who recently moved into a house in which the previous residents had been forced to move out after it was sold to a Hassid housing developer who renovated it and jacked up the rents, was also attacked last week. Apparently, he was standing outside his house talking on his iPhone, when someone ran up, punched him in the face and took his phone.

There are a couple of things I'd like to focus on here, NOT the seemingly rising crime rate which coincides with the increasing gentrification of our neighbourhood, but instead the age of our housemate's assailants and her kickass reaction to the attack. Thirteen is young for sure. But eight? Since when do eight year olds go around mugging adults? Our housemate says that judging by the effective choke hold the thirteen year old had on her neck, that this wasn't the first time he'd done this. And that she thought that the eight year old was being taught how to mug people. Big Joe is guessing they live in the nearby projects. Who showed the thirteen year old how to mug people? And how long has he been doing this? Is this what is being passed down to our neighbouring youth? If anything, doesn't this highlight the problem that pervails in low income neighbourhoods - NOT the problem of underage crime, but the underlying issue that these children have such few options. In addition to our failing, underfunded schools, our lack of decent playgrounds and parks, and whatever personal disadvantages (economic and sociological) these children had growing up, there are no places for these kids to go. Nothing for them to do. No afterschool activities they can afford. No boy scouts, piano lessons, soccer teams, none of the stuff I took for granted in the middle class neighbourhood I grew up in.

Magnifico, a black man who's grown up on our block, can remember a time that there was a big park across the street. And people, black people, got 'jumped' all the time when they walked past. And then the park was replaced with cheap prefab housing and filled up with Chinese people. Then it was the Chinese people getting mugged. Now it's the white people. But for all I know black and Chinese people are still getting mugged too. I mean, why not? The kids in the projects are still poor. And it seems, to them, that other people have everything they want. Everytime we have a block meeting, Magnifico's main concern is activities for the kids. He's had a hard life. Been in and out of jail. Rarely sober. I don't know what his homelife was like but I'm guessing it wasn't good. Could it be that finding free constructive activities for our youth is the answer? As simple as it sounds it might be. It's a good start at any rate. But even more important is some sort of local mentoring program - so that children like the ones who mugged our housemate might have better role models than the ones they currently have.

My emotions in this instance go all over the place. Ranging from fear that I, too, might get mugged, possibly while with my child. Although this is something that could happen to anyone in any urban neighbourhood. Muggings abound in gentrified Williamsburg and the Lower East Side. I also feel anger that I feel threatened, then compassion for these kids, then wonder at having such feisty women for housemates. For this is the second time one of our female housemates showed amazing fortitude in a threatening situation. In November, 2007, another one of our female housemates was almost attacked by a man as she tried to enter our house. Only she whacked her would be attacker with her rolling suitcase and he fled. And what about the woman riding her bike, who promptly, without a second thought, helped chase down the muggers. Fearlessly aiding another woman she didn't even know. I do know that if anyone hurt my child that I would probably try to kill them. But I have less confidence in my abilities of self defense should I be walking alone.

Gavin de Becker, who has written several books on the psychology of both attackers and victims, co-authored a book with Ellen B. Snortland, called Beauty Bites Beast: Awakening the Warrior Within Women and Girls. Excerpts can be found on Google Books. Here's some advice from a police lieutenant in the book:

"But what if they kill me if I fight back?" people ask. That's true, fighting back might get you killed. But paralysis and passivity can get you killed, too. Isn't it better to know how to fight back so that fighting back is an option? Regardless of which option one chooses, fighting back or staying still, listening to your inner voice or intuition is a major part of self-defense if not the most important part. The women who succeed in defending themselves without formal training, do not think themselves into paralysis. They act.

And then what follows is a number of stories of how women WITH NO FORMAL SELF DEFENSE TRAINING, ranging in age from eighteen to 112 (112!!), successfully fought back against their attackers. Ellen Snortland has also made a documentary based on her book. Here's a preview:

If you're a woman and you're looking to take some local self defense classes, Jodi Nelson Call of the Brooklyn blog, Pistols and Popcorn, offers Muay Thai (kickboxing) classes to women. Check it out.

The Resurrection of ODB

It has come to my attention that Victor Goldfeld's mural of Ol' Dirty Bastard (on the corner of Putnam and Franklin), which was defaced in December 2007, has been repainted by an anonymous artist.

photo: Victor Goldfeld
The original face painted by Victor Goldfeld.

photo: Victor Goldfeld
The new face repainted by an artist who didn't identify him/herself.

The original photo from the album cover.

From a forum on Whimit.com, Victor Goldfeld who goes by 'AnimatorNYC' says:

my odb mural in bed stuy was finally fixed, i of course would of loved to do it myself but did not have permission, looks like some one took matters in their own hands and fixed it, this calms my heart, it truly does....

i tried to contact the lady that owns the building its on, and she refused to talk to me, and i kept getting emails from people in the neighborhood who were mad upset over this, and there was nothing i could really do about it, and it broke my heart, its like if u deface something, either cover it completely up or dont touch it, dont let it rot there still half visible, it was so disrespectful.... the lady hated him cuz she didnt like the type of person he was etc.... but whatever, the important thing is some one was somehow able to fix it, and it makes me happy and the people of the neighborhood happy so whatever, i just finally feel some closure

I wonder if someone else got permission or they just did it on the sly. Either way it's good to see the mural intact once again even if the styles are different. The original face on the mural has a more wide-eyed, deer caught in headlights kind of look. While in the new one ODB looks a little tougher and surlier. Hard to really say though from that photograph. I will try to go over there and take a clearer picture within the next couple of weeks.

Today's Local News - Mottzrella and Asbestos

One of our local bodega's recently changed their menu advertising again. Keeping it fresh with more hand drawn food images. Love it. Especially those precariously balanced 'mottzrella' sticks.

The Earlies' house has finally been bought and is under construction. Discarded speakers from past tenants adorn the front.

Little Joe's newest cardboard toy that he begged me to make for him over mid-term recess, which I spent many hours slaving over and then which he promptly lost interest in two days later. Likely because it was too big to fit on my skateboard, so he couldn't ride it down the hallway.

This asbestos removal notice in our subway station isn't on bright yellow paper - the photo just came out that way. But it seems appropriate. I'm interested in the 'air monitoring,' what does that mean exactly? I just love it when you see people in protective suits and masks working on a hazardous area while unsuspecting unprotected people, including children, walk past.

Although all these changes are happening, apparently, some things stay the same. Asia STILL stinks.

Brooklyn Weather: Cold, yet springlike. Good sign that winter is slowly on its way out.

Keg Party?

Well this is one way to get to know your neighbours, or any person looking for cheap beer who gets off the train at the Myrtle station. It just seems so insane, inviting complete strangers to your house to drink beer. Or is it just a ploy to get a girl? Any girl. I almost wished I could have gone just to see what kind of person is throwing this 'keg party' and who would be desperate enough to attend such a thing.

Art Students in the House

Here's some recent evidence we found of art students (or art school graduates) in Bed-Stuy in the vicinity of Pratt Institute.

This painting on a street sign is dated 2001, so it may not be so recent, although judging by the freshness of the paint and the vibrancy of the image, I'd say it was made this year.

This looks like the remnants of a vehicle from January's Idiotarod.

It may look incidental, but I believe it's actually quite deliberate.

More street sign paintings.

White Dog in White House

I was enamoured with this white dog peeking out of this white framed window, with the white curtain and the white house. But I chose to post it this evening because it appears to be inoffensive. Unless someone decides that somehow this photo is demeaning to Bed-Stuy residents because I'm so naively unaware of the white dog situation in this neighbourhood.

For some reason, my traffic has doubled in the past week because of Google. It seems that more and more people are arriving at my blog in their search for pit bull puppies. And the more they click on my blog, the higher my one post about pit bull puppies in the 500 posts I've written, rises higher and higher on the Google search engine. Until one day, it will be number one. And my blog will be the definitive source for pit bull puppy information. Which, in case you haven't figured out by now, it isn't.

Although there are those today who were looking for 'bed-stuy gangs,' 'bed-stuy drugs,' 'food dimensions,' and 'quonset huts,' all topics which I've blogged on, all kinds of people randomly find my blog while searching for something completely unrelated. Like 'banana potato,' which, incidentally, is a banana shaped yellow fleshed fingerling potato good for boiling and salads. But really, is my blog about banana potatoes? No. Have I ever blogged about banana potatoes until this very moment? No. And yet, this person who discovered my blog through their internet banana potato research just happened to be a Bed-Stuy public school teacher, who read through a few of my posts, became enraged and sent me an email to tell me why.

It seems that the main reason she was angry is that she read a few posts and made some incorrect assumptions. I have done over 500 posts and when one just happens on my blog, of course there's no way they can read even half, or a quarter, or even an eighth of those posts in an evening unless they have a premium internet connection and a lot time to waste. Wherein lies the problem. With blogging. With communication. With being understood. One cannot read one of my posts or even twenty posts and really understand what I or my blog is about. This blog has been a journey for me. I've learned a lot along the way. For one, meeting one's nemeses in person is an excellent way to turn haters into an allies. The problem with the internet and blogging specifically, is that when you write something personal instantly people assume that they know you. But contrary to what some may think, I do not tell all. In fact, were a faithful reader of my blog to meet me I might be completely different than what they expected.

Ask anyone who's done internet dating and they'll understand. I did internet dating for two years. You can fall in love emailing a stranger, gazing at their online photograph, and then meet them in person and never want to see them again. The internet creates a mythical persona whether you want it to or not.

Another thing I've learned is that people are angry. And lots of angry, unhappy people surf the web. And write angry, unhappy comments on whatever they may find there. I found this one blog that wrote solely about J.Crew catalogs of all things, and on one post where this blogger wrote some snarky things about that season's collection, one commenter went apeshit in the store's defense. Go figure.

Many people seem to think that not only do I represent every gentrifier in Brooklyn, but I am the sole reason for the gentrification plague. However, I'm quite sure that most gentrifiers in Brooklyn would not like me to represent them, and would never elect me to do so. This is a personal blog. It's about me. My family. My view of our neighbourhood. And yes, I do know the American spelling does not include the 'u' in 'neighbourhood.' But that's the spelling I grew up with in Canada and the spelling that I prefer to use in my personal writing. Besides, my recent U.S. oath of naturalization did not include giving up the 'u' in 'neighbourhood,' or in 'colour,' or the Canadian pronunciation of 'house' or 'out.'

Okay, enough ranting for today. Enjoy the dog picture. If my pit bull puppy traffic increases even more I'm going to give some serious thought to getting some dog food advertising and make a little cash on this strange turn of events.

Vintage Industrial Design

My first camera was a Minolta SLR 101, a solid chunk of metal that weighed a ton, that my dad had bought second hand in Germany in the mid 1960's. I lugged it with me through Asia, Europe and North America. I accidentally dropped it a few times and although a few of the plastic details got chipped, it served me faithfully for many years. Until the digital age happened and film went out the window. And though I am in love with the compactness and lightness of today's digital cameras, not to mention the speed at which I can get an image up on to the internet, clunky heavy film cameras still hold a special place in my heart.

Big Joe and I share a passion for vintage furniture and knick knacks. I'm especially a fan of the 1940's. The rustier and more banged up the better. In the summertime I use an incredibly loud metal fan that shakes the floorboards, and one winter I nearly burnt down my old apartment with an amazing heater that looked like a satellite dish that spontaneously combusted one frigid evening. But even though it no longer worked, it still looked great. The thing is, those pieces have stood the test of time, weathered the elements, and are still both structurally sound and esthetically pleasing. Will any of today's design, made of plastic and silicone last more than a decade or two? Unless they're preserved in a padded clunky metal case?

Food Art: Photo Realism vs. Line Drawings

This blown out faded blob does not tempt me to come in and grab a slice of pizza.

However, this simply drawn sign does. Even though it too is old and deteriorating.

While these photos actually repel instead of entice. The two bagels especially, first the open faced bagel that looks like it's been smeared with vomit and then the closed bagel with the cream cheese oozing out of it as though it's been sat on.

These photos aren't that offensive, but they don't grab me either. I am however rather partial to that cup of coffee.

And this is my absolute favourite. No catchy phrases, no embellishments.

I like this one too, for its iconic international symbol of fast food.

But if I did have to pick one with realistic photos, this one's not half bad. The text and graphics actually work together. And the more I look at the coffee and donut for under a buck deal, the more I feel like popping in. But then again, who can resist a coffee and a donut?

Local Colour - 3

As winter drags on and on I yearn for colour. The subway train is a sea of black coats and hats, the trees are barren and devoid of greenery, and the skies are gloomy and grey. Luckily, in addition to chance sightings of the ever colourful Darlinda Just Darlinda, Bed-Stuy never fails to satisfy my colour cravings.

Urban Gravestones - 21

IN MEMORY OF PABLO
RiP KiD
(location: Skillman St. between Dekalb and Willoughby)
Why do you cry out so loudly? Why are you suffering...Is it because you have no king and your counselors are dead? MiCAH 4:6-9

Gone but not forgotten.

Dedicated by family and friends.

Painted on this wood construction fence, this mural is definitely temporary. However, hopefully Pablo's loved ones can find a place to keep this loving mural when it comes down.

Sleep

I woulda been a dreamer if I had the time to sleep.

The mattress I bought fifteen years ago died a timely death about two months ago. Too late to return on its ten year warranty. A big valley suddenly opened up in the middle that Big Joe and I sank slowly into. Big Joe felt the effects first. Two weeks later he could no longer handle walking around with an aching back, reeking of Tiger Balm, and moved to a sleeping bag on the floor at the foot of our bed. This improved his back dramatically but did little for our relationship. A month later, my back started to ache. Only I blamed it on stress. Lord knows we have plenty to stress about. Surely it couldn't be my mattress. I loved my mattress. It had been my first real bed after years of sleeping on futons. A real mattress on a real bed frame - a vintage brass bed frame that I got for a song at a flea market that once existed on Broadway and Grand Street in Manhattan. And there was no way I was going to sleep on the floor - that might help my back but it would surely make everything else hurt. Only a new mattress wasn't exactly in our budget.

If this was 2002 or any year P.B. (pre-bedbug) we might be able to get a re-furbished mattress or even one out of the trash. When I first met Big Joe he proudly owned a mattress he'd rescued from the neighbouring yard that was full of broken furniture in Greenpoint. But those times of finding great trash to furnish one's house with are over. Unless you want to invite a slew of tiny blood sucking critters into your home as well.

So then we moved the mattress to the floor. Which seemed to help, a little. Only it filled up our living room floor, which meant we no longer had a living room. Next solution: Big Joe took my vintage bed frame apart. Replaced many missing screws, sawed down the wood slats that supported the mattress that were too long (due to my hasty and faulty measuring when I first bought the bed), and built a wooden support to place beneath them so they wouldn't sag. We rejoiced at the thought of sleeping together once again. But after one night of renewed cuddling, Big Joe awoke in agony and moved back to the floor the following evening.

Then today. Presidents' Day. If nothing else, good for mattress sales! I took Little Joe over to Macy's and after trying out the two cheapest ones, we tried out every single mattress in the store. Just for fun. And it was. Great fun. In fact, if we weren't actually purchasing a mattress I recommend it highly as a free form of entertainment for a parent with a four year old on a budget. Excellent rainy day activity. And then I did the unthinkable, opened up a Macy's card for the 15% discount and charged a mattress. Because now I've had it with walking bent over with my hand on my back, reeking of Tiger Balm, and popping ibuprofen. Can't wait until they deliver it a week from now. Our upcoming tax refund should take care of the bill, and then we'll just deal with everything else as it comes.

Titanic

This is my favourite truck ever. First reason, obviously, 'Titanic' scrawled across the back of this beat up vehicle that does look like it could suddenly hit an iceberg and sink into the depths of the ocean. But even better what's written on the top bar: La Baleada se comio el taco. And Honduras -1 Mexico - 0. A 'baleada' is the Honduran version of a taco. Or they'd probably say the taco is the Mexican version of the baleada. Thus 'baleadas eat tacos' or Honduras kicks Mexico's ass. And then to put the salsa on the baleada, so to speak, that great sign on the right, advertising 'Budget Exterminating.' Catching this scene on digital 'film' just made my day.

Tools for Surviving the Recession

Photo: Aturkus

I received a second urgent email about this upcoming event put on by the Coalition for the Improvement of Bedford-Stuyvesant (CIBS):

Come to this Free Event and Speak to Professionals about your Financial Situation

• Engage with experts in a panel discussion (10:00 AM - 11:30 AM)
• Receive 1-on-1 financial assistance, foreclosure counseling and other services
• Enroll in a suite of free Bed-Stuy programs to improve your finances

Panelists include: Lynn Tollett, HSBC Bank, Cynthia Boyd, Carver Federal Bank, Richard Farrell, Brooklyn District Attorney and Colvin Grannum, Co-Convener, CIBS

Where: First AME Zion Church, 54 MacDonough St (Tompkins Ave)
When: Saturday, February 21, 2009
Time: 9:30 AM – 3:00 PM

What stands out about this event is the free one-on-one counseling, it's not just some people standing at the front monologueing with confusing terminology. Sounds like it might be worth checking out.

Today's Local News: Father of Two Risks Life to Save Stranger's Hat

I love this outdoor table with the four straight backed chairs, patiently awaiting warmer weather and the promise of summer picnics. It's so hopeful and beautiful even in the dry cold winter air.

Early this morning while waiting at our subway station with other bleary-eyed and disgruntled commuters, I watched, stunned, as a tall Latino man with a pony tail on the opposite platform gracefully jumped down on the tracks as the J train left the station before ours and slowly moved towards him. What could be that important? I thought, to risk life and limb so early in the morning. He carefully climbed over the rails, picked up a pink baseball cap up off the tracks and handed it to a flustered Chinese woman in her sixties who stood at the edge offering her hand to help him up. He ignored her outstretched hand and swung back up on to the platform. She hurriedly dug into her handbag and gave him napkins to clean off his hands with. The gale force wind blew the napkins high into the air. She thanked him profusely for his gallantry. He smiled and chided her, "Hold on to your hat!" then brushed his hands together to clean off the subway dirt and rejoined his two kids on the bench to wait for the train. The woman replaced the hat on her head and tied a scarf on top of it, grinning foolishly all the while. I was grinning too as the train pulled in.

What a crazy ridiculous wonderful thing to do. All of a sudden I felt like everything was going to be okay. We're all in this together. And people are essentially good and kind. Man, I love this city. Yes things are bad right now. For many of us. But everything has its cycles. And perversely, what goes down must come up. After winter comes spring. It may take longer than we'd like. But it will get better. Eventually. And in the meantime, each day has its glorious moments if we choose to acknowledge them and let them in.

Brooklyn Weather: Blustery and cold.

This Is Not a Dumpsite

This morning I spent two hours on the phone with various government agencies trying to get Big Joe's defunct Medicaid card replaced. But I was put on hold forever, and finally had to give up.

Then this afternoon I was grocery shopping and when I got to the cashier, the PIN number on my EBT card refused to function. Three tries later and many irritated customers standing in line behind me, I returned my groceries and left. When I called to figure out what the problem was, they told me that there was nothing wrong with my card, but that since I'd entered the 'wrong' PIN number 3x in a row that I should reset my PIN but wouldn't be able to use my card until tomorrow. So much for groceries.

This evening I picked up a ceramic dish on the stove that had been sitting next to the roaring flame beneath the pressure cooker and heard sizzling before I dropped it into the sink. That was the flesh on my hand popping and crackling like the skin on a roast chicken.

I know things have to get better soon. That they might even be better tomorrow. But right now I feel like the 'designated dumpsite.' My recovery group talks about turning all this over to my 'higher power.' Only I don't know if I believe in a higher power. So right now it just gets turned over and dumped back on the dumping pile. Not helpful. And since I've given up all forms of sugar, alcohol and retail therapy, all I have left is this idea of 'God' whomever or whatever that means to me. There's a reason religious cults continue to thrive. So many of us are looking for guidance, a place to call home, and a shoulder to cry on.

Worthy Mistakes

This sign can say anything you want it to.

Today I received a hospital bill dated 12/24/07 from when we were visiting Big Joe's parents in New Mexico over the holidays. Christmas Eve my heart was racing, I was having hallucinations and trouble breathing for over 12 hours, in addition to my other mysterious ills. We weighed the possibility of me having a heart attack with the possibility that Medicaid wouldn't pay my hospital bill out of state, and decided, what the hell, let's go to the Emergency Room. Of course the attending doctor just said I had a bad cold and that the other stuff was due to the high altitude, gave me an asthma inhaler and sent me home. And then the bill never materialized so we figured our insurance covered it. Until today's mail delivery. We owe $683.83. Due immediately. Wonderful timing. So now I'm cursing myself for being such a wimp and going to the emergency room that day. But really shouldn't I be cursing the American health system? What's up with that? Why must Americans need to make that kind of a choice? And then be punished for choosing health over debt?

During Little Joe's week-long flu, I had set him up in my studio in a moss green velvet covered vintage chair and an ottoman in front of my old computer where he watched endless movies in a sick stupor and ate whatever I could get him to eat. The last day of his illness when he was 75 percent recovered, I'd given him a glass of 'purple juice' (purple carrots, berries, and pomegranates) which he, being four, and still a little woozy, spilled all over my book shelves and the box where we keep the dvds (fortunately not over my favourite chair). Which is what I get for giving him a glass of dark purple juice in my studio. I should have known better. At any rate, there I was on my hands and knees mopping up sticky purple puddles when I discovered this old fortune I'd kept from months, possibly years ago.

I'm someone who sets up camp in the past, reviews it endlessly, and relives every trip and fall with the same pain. I'm beyond sentimental. I'm a personal history buff. So there. The past. It's done. Time to let it go. Time to forgive and accept myself. And maybe even decide that the choices I made were the right ones. Because at least I've taken chances, dared to fly, dared to fail. And yes, many worthy things have resulted from my efforts. I mustn't forget that.

Found

Either someone lost these keys and a good samaritan picked them up and placed them on this tree branch, or someone is using this tree in lieu of hiding their spare set of keys under the mat.

Urban Gravestones - 20

R.I.P. COUNTRY
(location: Chauncey St. between Howard and Ralph)

EIGHT TO INFINITY
STOP THE VIOLENCE
(location: Chauncey and Ralph Ave.)

RIP MILK

(location: Chauncey and Ralph Ave.)

The two last pictures are sections of the same wall. Unfortunately I didn't realize something was scrawled across both sections, and that somehow I managed to cut something out. But I believe it says LETS PRAY NOW.

Sanky Panky and Soda Pop

Big Joe took the day off today for our monthly house meeting and cleaning day. Although I kind of dread our monthly cleaning days because I'm usually so exhausted, cleaning together with our housemates whom we like very much is actually an uplifting experience. First the act of cleaning which also clears my head, and the group effort which makes a dull chore so much fun. Then we left our shiny lemon scented dust-free house and took a stroll up Broadway to visit a friend who'd invited us over for green chile stew. On the way we passed these three things that were the cherries on the top of an increasingly splendid day.

These gentlemen named themselves after Caribbean male sex workers and dressed up like the Blues Brothers, then presented themselves on this great bubble wrap background. If you speak Spanish this looks like a must see even if you have to head over to neighbouring Bushwick to do so.

These brightly colored soda bottles took me back to when I was eight years old and spending a week in the summer at my friend's parents' cabin on Cultus Lake. First thing in the morning we'd head to the candy store, load up a big paper bag full of sweets and grab a cold cream soda to wash it all down. Then we'd walk down to the shore, get in the rubber dingy and row out to the center of the lake and gorge ourselves until the sun started turning our skin reddish-pink which was our cue to jump in the water and cool off.

And finally this open mailbox randomly stuck on a plywood wall around a construction site. It seemed like such a hopeful image. To put a mailbox with no name on a place that doesn't even exist yet, and expect a letter or two.

I forget, stuck in the mire of my doom and gloom, what fun it is to just take a walk around the neighbourhood in the fresh air with my camera. It's fun and creative and doesn't cost a cent.

Public Forum on Trash in the Hood

I received this email today:

Chicken Bones & Dorito Bags

What do they have in common? They litter the streets of BedStuy along with water bottles, ho ho wrappers, three course meals, wind-strewn newspapers and doggie dinner by product.

The theory of One Broken Window contends that a single, vandalized, broken window, will lead to others in the neighborhood. Vandalism begets more vandalism. Well, garbage begets more garbage. And we're probably all guilty of this in one way or another. Think about the last time you passed by a public trash can that was so full, people started leaving their garbage next to it, on the street. You see this and what do you do? Join in. It's the same thing. And it needs to stop.

There will be a meeting of the minds at Lab 24/7 this Monday. I hope you'll join us.

Says it all. Here's the details:

Time: Monday, February 9, 2009 from 7:30pm to 9pm
Location: Lab 24/7
Street: 247 Stuyvesant Ave (between Madison + Putnam) map
Contact Info: 917-825-7425

Job Hunting with Elmer Fudd

Suzy Freitas, a waitress at Country Rose Cafe, was voted best waitress in San Benito County.
"It's a real honor," Freitas said. "I really don't know (why I was chosen). I just like to have fun at work."
Photo by: Nick Lovejoy, The Free Lance

When I was a kid my mother worked as a waitress at a coffee shop. She was good at her job. But then she has a lively personality and is extremely social, not to mention conscientious and a hard worker. I followed in her footsteps and ended up waiting tables in Vancouver, London, Paris, Amsterdam, and New York. I've worked in about 20 different restaurants from the age of 15 until age 35. I'm great at multi-tasking, have an excellent memory for orders, am fast, responsible and am passionate about food. However, I do not believe that the customer is always right, cannot hide my emotions and despise the restaurant industry with every cell in my body. In fact I can no longer stand going out to eat in any place with table service. I cannot bear to be waited on. Chinese restaurants or mom and pop diners are fine. But give me any place with a waiter/actor/dancer/writer and my stomach starts churning.

When you wait tables in your twenties, you think, this is not me, I'm a designer/poet/performer, this is just paying my rent. It's not forever. Besides, I get a free meal and a drink at the end of the night.

When you wait tables in your thirties, you think, okay, this is not where I want to be but this is my last restaurant job. I swear.

But when you wait tables in your forties, you have to stop and take a cold hard look at the apron around your waist, the dish rag in your hand, the crud beneath your nails, and your shirt that stinks of grease, and say "I'm going to be here until arthritis sets in and I can no longer hold a tray or until Alzheimers' prevents me from remembering if table seven wanted regular or decaf." And that's all fine and good if waiting tables is your calling. (What's the opposite of a calling? Writing on the door that says, "Danger. Keep the Hell Out.") But if it isn't then I see lots of prescription drugs in your future.

So now I'm desperately in need of work and the job I'm most qualified for gives me nightmares. Never mind the fact that I went to an art college for four years for photography, and also have work experience as a photo editor, photo researcher, photographers' assistant, office manager, photographer, proofreader, receptionist, location scout, web designer, and have written two novels (as yet unpublished). When I think of myself and my work history I think, stay at home mom and career waitress. And then I read the news, watch the numbers of unemployed rising, hear personal horror stories, finger the new ebt card in my pocket and think, oh boy, am I in deep sh*t or what? Because of my five year hiatus from the workforce, and my ancient limited experience in other fields, I feel that I need to start pounding on restaurant doors now. No, not now. Yesterday. Only I'm utterly paralyzed.

Besides who wants a forty year old tee-totaling vegetarian waitress with greying hair and holes in her clothes? New York's restaurant industry is all about looking young, hip and cute. Plus it's a recession. I remember couch surfing in London while futilely searching for a waitressing job everyday for two months. Or in Paris, also for two months. Or in Amsterdam for three. Or in Vancouver for six. Always in winter. Endlessly shivering, with only lint in my wallet, and lying about being a 'people person.' And that's when I was young, hip and cute.

And so I check Craigslist and MediaBistro and think, nope, I'm definitely not qualified for that, or that, or that either. So now I'm looking at internships. Only they want young students who want college credit. Besides, we need money now. How can I possibly do an unpaid internship? Factor in that I'd like work that fits in nicely between the hours that Little Joe is in preschool so we won't have to pay for childcare, and it's a completely unsellable package. So all this crap keeps spinning around and around in my head making me dizzy. On one hand I don't regret the choices I've made in my life, I've grown and learned from them all. They've made me the person I am today and in my saner moments, I actually like and respect that person. But at this point in time I'm not feeling sane. Just unemployable.

I had lunch today with an old friend who's doing extremely well in his career. Not only is he making good money but he enjoys what he does. He's a partner in a successful clothing business in Vietnam and travels all over the world. He radiates success with his golden tan, gym-toned body, designer shades, tastefully expensive clothes, and aura of quiet confidence. He's the same age as me. He's staying at a chic hotel in SoHo, flying to Miami tomorrow, owns properties in the south of France and I'm collecting food stamps. That's when I start thinking, I've made some very bad choices in my life as far as my career goes. Something has to change. I can't keep doing things the same way. But every time I aim at a target, I end up shooting myself in the face. Well at least I'm still standing. Wobbly. But upright. Maybe I'm aiming at the wrong target. Or perhaps I just need to learn how to shoot. Tomorrow I'm off to see about a job training program offered by the Henry Street Settlement.

Not in Service

This game is not in service. Burnt out. More tomorrow...

Little Joe's Dream House

So apparently Little Joe just had a really bad case of the flu. I think he may be up to returning to school tomorrow. We spent the last day of his convalescence inside, watching big snowflakes drift past our windows and making his dream house out of cardboard. In my son's dream house, everyone he loves lives there with him, mommy and daddy, his grandma, grandpa, *Nenek, his uncles, his best friend Daisy and her parents, and Santa Claus. It's always Christmas and all the mail and the presents under the tree are for him. We're always in a good mood and we play happily together hanging on the roof, jumping down the chimney on to the bed, and falling down the stairs all day long. I managed to get the house and the three of us done today. I have to make the rest of the people tomorrow. Little Joe made the rugs and the pictures on the walls. Who needs store bought toys anyway?

*Nenek is what he calls my mother, it's Indonesian for grandmother. Her Indonesian speaking friends can't understand why she'd want to be called that however as the old song about 'Nenek' is about an old woman with only two teeth.

Grandeur in Decay

And yet, somehow in their state of disrepair and neglect, they've become beautiful in a different way.

In Sickness and In Health

Little Joe is sick. Has been sick since Thursday morning. At first I thought it was chickenpox since that's been going around his school. But then after three days of 103 degree fever and no spots, it clearly wasn't. Today he's been napping on and off all day, listless, achy, exhausted, no appetite, congested, irritable, uncomfortable, and it seems like the flu. Or not. Tomorrow we visit the doctor. Big Joe said that as he's been carrying our child from his room to the bathroom and back again that it made him think of our friend's son Hazen who died at the age of five from neuroblastoma, a type of cancer that usually affects young children. Hazen's cancer started out with constipation and a distended belly, that other parents told our friend was normal in a child his age (3). But there was nothing normal in the least about his poor little tummy. Then his parents valiantly spent two years with Hazen in the cancer ward at Sloan Kettering. To no avail.

Little Joe's been obsessed with death lately. Last week he woke up crying saying, "I don't want Daddy to die." I tried to comfort him, telling him that Daddy was in the bathroom having a shower, and that right now everyone was fine. That we don't know what will happen tomorrow. But if Daddy did die, his spirit would still be around, and that we could still talk to him. He just wouldn't be able to say anything back. And we couldn't hug him. So we need to enjoy the people we love while they're with us and give them lots of hugs and kisses while we can. Oh boy, real comforting huh? I just can't help telling it how I see it. And I don't believe in hiding what I see as the truth from our child. So when Big Joe came out of the shower, Little Joe jumped out of his high chair and squeezed him hard. Then they had an extra special cuddle before we left for our son's pre-school.

Health is everything. I've been sleeping by Little Joe's side for the past four nights as he burned up like a torch, flailed around with terrible nightmares, screamed in pain, and his tiny heart beat fast and hard beneath my palm. Correction, I've been lying by his side. Not sleeping. Worrying. Fretting. It makes everything else inconsequential. Blogging. Food stamp embarrassment. Useless job hunting. Career woes. My mind and heart are filled with our child. Health. Cherish it. Nourish it. Enjoy it. And give your loved ones lots of hugs and kisses while you can.