Croix de Candlestick

A long time ago, in a mystical fairyland called Hunters Point, there stood a massive circular edifice called Candlestick Park. It was large. It was concrete. It lacked any pretension of neighborhood charm. It was magnificently ugly.

After the successful theft of the Giants from the Polo Grounds, the ball-club played two seasons at Seals Stadium-- which, incidentally, stood at 16th & Bryant in the Mission, an area now roamed by hipsters and (cough) digerati with funny glasses and Eames chairs. Then, Mayor Christopher & Horace Stoneham, as planned, moved the Giants into their new home in 1960. It was like moving an orphan from a kindly foster family into a Dickensian orphanage.

But such an orphanage. Though Stu Miller may have simply lost his balance (and was not blown off the mound, as legend has it), the ferocity of the wind merited its reputation. Around the 6th inning of day games, the daily Dance of the Hot Dog Wrappers would begin: a fantasia of swirling white paper. Night games required polar attire. Fly balls (anyone remember Glenallen Hill?) were physical comedies waiting to happen. The wind, more than Yoko, probably dissuaded the Beatles from ever playing live again.

When I was a kid in the '80s, Candlestick Park meant crowds of 1,750 for Monday night games against the Expos. It meant screaming for Jack Clark from the loge, and having him actually hear you. Only die-hard fans were in attendance: the 300-pound beer-swilling Superfans, and the elderly couples with transistor radios & hats covered with commemorative pins & memories of Orlando Cepeda. Everyone hated Candlestick but the 1,750 of us.

Friday night Dodger games were the best. Once, in the '90s, I went to a game w/my girlfriend at the time, and we sat in the bleachers. We witnessed 30 arrests in our section, no joke, with bloodied faces and riot gear and endless profane invective hurled at Brett Butler. It was fucking great. Dodgers fans had the snot beat out of them with regularity at the 'Stick.

Truth be told, the new ballpark (let's just call it Mays Field) saved the Giants from moving to Tampa, and for that I should be grateful. I should worhip the beautiful views of the Bay Bridge, the Bonds shots into McCovey Cove, the comparative warmth and windlessness. And I've refrained from too much criticism, fearing that it's just blind nostalgia. But no.

Games at SBC/AT&T/PacBell Park are like corporate motivational seminars. The stands are packed with jackasses on their cell phones (ready to be placed back in their belt holsters). My friend DS, a Mets fan, writes gloatingly in an email about the soullessness of the place:

"... as if it were possible to further demean and cheapen the Giant fan 'experience'... the Visa show-us-your-credit-cards promotion in the top of the fifth inning. Exactly what it sounds like, a stadium full of khaki- and cap-clad fans wildly waving their Gold Cards in the air, like they just
don' care, for a shot at a $50 gift certificate. Yep, that's right...$50. Not having a shred of dignity? Priceless."

Move the Giants back to the 'Stick.

A call to arms

Overture, curtain, lights!
This is it... the night of nights!
No more rehearsing or nursing a part!
We know every part by heart!
Overture, curtain, lights!
This is it... we'll hit the heights!
And oh, what heights we'll hit!
On with the show, this is it!

Bank holiday

It's a birthday for CC&P. Won't give it away, but my first memory is of a buggering by Chiang Kai-Shek (Tupperware party, laundry room). So I will take April 26th off to observe the spontaneous street festivals in various world capitals.

The Dutch: friends or foes?

I want to say a few things about the Dutch. I do not judge. I merely give you the facts.

• First of all, they have fantastic accents when they speak English-- much closer to the Swedish Chef accent than anything actual Swedes can produce.
• Plus, they are tricky. How tricky? They are from the Netherlands, they are from Holland, and they are Dutch. It's like the revolving license plate in Goldfinger.
• Also-- not to apologize for their oppressive colonial history-- but they were absolutely fucking meticulous when it came to record-keeping in their colonies. Wanna know how many millimeters of rain fell in Jogjakarta on November 6, 1874? Ask the Dutch.
• Penultimately, they play baseball. Rikkert Faneyte is a national hero. I once met a guy in Chiapas who had played in the Dutch major leagues. Or so he claimed.
• Finally, they wiped out the dodo. Mason & Dixon has a nice little section on that incident.

That is all for today.

whoa

Dude. Blogger's screwin' with me, man. Sorry about the repeated post. I didn't like those words that much. Anyway, some nuggets pour voo:

• You may have seen this: after years of rigorous analysis and careful study, a "controversial" Roman Catholic Cardinal (by no means a spokesman for the Church) has concluded that condom use is a "lesser evil" than a slow, painful death from AIDS... "under certain circumstances." I would venture to guess that these circumstances may involve sexual intercourse, but I suspect the Vatican will not agree. Using a condom to strangle unwed mothers is probably what they have in mind.
• I said I was gonna praise the rocksteady compilation "Red Bumb Ball" here. And so I do: Praise be! All the songs have two chords, all the songs sound exactly alike, and each song has more soul than you can shake a stick at, even if you're shaking the stick really really quickly.
• A friend of a friend directed a little behind-the-scenes vid for Gogol Bordello, which whet my appetite... and I'm real sorry I missed the concert described here. There'll be more.
• Now, you may have seen the Catholic stuff, but I'm sure you've seen this. No reason at all to link to The Onion. Nonetheless, when my brother told me the headline over the phone, I spit half-chewed pheasant all over the front of Mischa Barton's blouse. "Beaver Overthinking Dam." Choice quotes: "On the other hand, a dam is a celebration of beaver culture, and that is what it should reflect." "I don't want this to be one of those generic McDams."

CC&P-sanctioned words

harridan
virago
spuddy
squidjigger
mazzard
merkin

"Say, Lois-- how big do you think my mouth is?"

One day when I was living in San Francisco, I bought a shoebox for $1 from a woman selling junk in a garage sale. This shoebox appeared to be filled with flotsam from the early 1900s, and leafing through yellowed scraps seemed like a good way to kill a few hours on a lazy summer Saturday. I asked the woman about its provenance, and she shrugged; perhaps she'd bought it in an estate sale. She hadn't a clue about its contents other than that they weren't worth anything.

I have an old silver sugar tin in which I throw sundry memorabilia: ticket stubs, notes, anything small that might trigger a memory somewhere down the line when I'm rotting in my nursing home, watching 50-year-old reruns of "The Office" over and over. I also keep most of my letters together in one place; the volume of written correspondence wanes temporally in inverse relation to the popularity of email.

This shoebox was Lois Howorth's version of my sugar tin & letter boxes, sort of a "Selected Precious Stones" of a life. The contents skewed heavily toward her childhood, though there were postcards and hotel business cards from her adult trips to Africa and Japan in the 1940s and 1950s. Photos. Letters. Postcards. Programs, tourist booklets, drawings. Notes she'd passed in class in 1914. Secret code keys she'd devised with her classmates. Doggerel.

There are cruel puns about teachers at the Anna Head School for Girls in Berkeley, CA. There is a training regimen for the girl's basketball team ("No frosted cake; no hot breads"). There is a distraught letter from a classmate over some unnamed tragedy. There are references to World War One, none prescient enough to assign it a numeral. There are brief notes regarding minor triumphs that were saved for their emotional resonance ("had a dreamy time with Roger last night!"). There are herbs (part of a tourist packet) from 1950s Jerusalem, stickers from the Ngorongoro Crater Lodge in Tanzania, a list of Japanese phrases from a cruise program. There are photographs of honest-to-god flappers, of unnamed relatives and friends and classmates. She'd gone to school with Herbert Hoover's niece and was thrilled as he rose up the political ladder ("Secretary of Commerce!") And dozens of frivolous notes that had been passed back and forth: ("Is Betty S. wearing your Chinese tie? It looks like yours." "HELL NO!")

It is endlessly fascinating, sometimes cheering, but not a little sad. I am constantly aware of my status as interloper, as exploitative custodian. Friends and I tried to piece together her life, even making a pilgrimage to the former site of the Anna Head School, which is long-defunct, the buildings now owned by some UC Berkeley administrative unit. I tried to track down surviving relatives, and failed. Now I own the highlights of Lois Howorth's life. Me, just some wiseass, just some dude who likes looking at old stuff.

Ten-bob note up my nose

I know that I've posted infrequently lately, and that I've whined a bit about being busy. True. I'll give you pie tomorrow. Steaming pie.

You know, it really makes you think... technology is supposed to bring people closer together, but isn't it really pushing us farther apart?

Hey, what's up?

Corn Chips and Pie will return soon, like Christ into Brussels. And you'll just make a spectacle of yourselves. Try to exercise some restraint.

In the meantime, I'll just lift up my head to note a couple of small things: First, springtime in New York is just fucking fantastic, and would be perfect if the pollen count didn't require me to cram plaster and clay up my nostrils to prevent me from leaving my own personal, uh, snail trail around the city. Let's just forget that last metaphor.

The other thing is that the Giants must be the worst 8-4 team in history. And the ridiculous thing is that they may win the NL West. Their advanced age gets a lot of attention, but probably not enough. I mean, Steve Finley, Omar Vizquel, Jeff Fassero, Moises Alou, Bonds, Durham, etc... holy crap.

Brian Sabean is missing two key pieces of the puzzle: Julio Franco and Rickey Henderson. And both are with the Mets, in slightly different capacities. Franco's 1 for 4 right now with a walk, and Rickey is imparting bits of koan-like advice to Mets hitters. Hey, Sabes: this is CC&P, calling on behalf of Rickey. Pay Rickey. The dude must be going crazy not being able to play. He led the glorious San Diego Surf Dawgs to the Discount League championship last year, and now he's telling Endy Chavez to open with his hips? The worst part is that Julio Franco probably rubs his playing time in Rickey's face. Like one geezer taunting another at Bingo Night. Hey Sabean! Wake up! Offer Rickey league minimum! Suit him up & set him loose!

It doesn't look so good for Peltier & Mumia; I think Volvo drivers should slap "Free Rickey" bumper stickers on their cars.

Stealing other people's links

Again, I'm busier than a dropsical cabin boy on derby day. So I'll just point you to this old Bay Area used car commercial, thanks to The Dust Congress. Turn up the volume really loud first.

Oh, and this video, via Soi Disantra. Enjoy.

Hey, amigo-- I'm reading your mail!

It's late & there are better things to do. But:

"Although he likes hardcore partying in Georgetown, Mr. Rountree said, he prefers U Street for food, music and date nights."

(Link here, if you really want more quotes like this.)

Gone fishin'

Busy today. Here are some of the stories the boys in the newsroom are feverishly putting together:

• True-life tales of a shoebox filled with the assorted memorabilia of a certain Lois Howorth of the Anna Head School for Girls in Berkeley, CA, around the early 1900s.
• An obscene poem about Esteban Loiza.
• A paean to "Red Bumb Ball," a collection of late '60s rocksteady from Pressure Sounds.
• Art Brut: are your children safe?
• A list of ideas for surefire hits in the execrable market for point-of-purchase books.
• A story about a cute baby giraffe and his adventures in the land of taffy.
• Hootenanny v. jamboree: history renders its verdict. And the results may surprise you.

I think you're in the clear, ace

Perhaps the only good reason to start a blog is to marvel at the Dadaist stream of Google search terms that lead people to one's site. This is sort of an amateur blogger's pastime, I suspect, but it's difficult for me to imagine the novelty wearing off.

With metronomic regularity, a certain someone has been checking this humble web-log for a certain combination of words. This certain someone is, I have reason to believe, a certain someone to whom I have linked. This certain combination of words is "[redacted] fucking photos."

The narrative I have concocted to explain this phenomenon is the following: this certain someone did something very naughty. This certain someone is concerned that said naughtiness was captured on camera. This certain someone is further terrified that said photographed naughtiness will find its way onto the internet. To which I have four responses:

1) If this narrative isn't true, I don't care; I prefer it to any alternative explanation. 2) If they haven't popped up by now, I think they may never. 3) But not to fear: if they do emerge, Corn Chips & Pie will try to get the scoop. You may trust CC&P to handle the matter with discretion and a favorable editorial slant. 4) I never, ever want to see these photos.

Music, poetry, physical education

• Last night, during her endearing but somewhat prepackaged between-song banter, Neko Case summoned forth unexpected but welcome memories of Adrian Zmed. It was kind of a Zmed-themed evening.
• If you haven't already, give this early poem by Elizabeth Bishop-- er, Lizzie Skurnick-- a read. Or just skip to the end for the money couplet.
• Bert Campaneris set a record by playing all nine positions in a game for the A's in the 1960s. A couple nights ago, Jason Kendall set a similar record: he wore all 3 major facial hair configurations during the same game. Beard to start. Moustache in the middle innings. Clean-shaven by the end.

This kind of shit fucks with your head

What does the discovery of the Gospel of Judas imply about Dylan going electric? And if I convert to Gnosticism, do I get a free sandwich or something? I mean, it sounds appealing, but I don't know much about it. I guess the Gnostic stance on circumcision will push me one way or the other.

Game 3/162: a must-win

Dispatch from the West Coast bureau of CC&P, via text message at 1am (EST) from the Oakland Coliseum:

"I hope steinbrenner is choking on his sausage, that fat fuck!"

Behind The Veil

There should be a ban, punishable by flogging, on the following headlines:

• Any story on an Islam-related issue: "Behind the Veil"
• Any story on a Russia-related issue: "From Russia With [...]"
• "Synagogues For Hipsters"

Anyhowz. When this blog was born (C-section; fat shoulders), the idea was to steer entirely clear of anything personal. This is a worthy and logical goal: nobody wants to hear about my struggle with macrocephaly. It's been a surprisingly difficult rule to follow strictly, at least for me, because I am massively self-absorbed, and I have no imagination. But I try. For that alone you should thank me.

Here's yet another brief, tantalizing glimpse-- just enough to quicken the blood. I just decided, irrevocably, to leave NYC and move to Baltimore in the fall. This decision, like all decisions, took me forever & tore my soul into little bitty shreds. I need a shot of something strong to dull the piercing stab of opportunity costs.

Mope springs eternal

Opening day. I hear you want some prognosticatin'. Although I'm still reeling & disoriented from the NYT website redesign, I will oblige. Nothing all that bold here.

NL West: Padres. Both the Gigantes & Dodgers look overrated, even by those who predict 85 wins for them.
NL Central: Cardinals. Dusty Baker will whittle a scale replica of Hearst Castle in a maple bat during the season, and the Chicago sports talk shows will bury him for it.
NL East: Braves. Yawn. Drool. Urinate in trousers.
NL Wild Card: Philly. Man, I sure like that Abreu fella. Good thighs.
AL West: The Oakland Athletes. Love Milton Bradley. Love him.
AL Central: Twins. This should be a good division race.
AL East: Yankees. Johnny Damon will catch Larry Bowa crying in the locker room before BP. Neither man will ever speak of it.
AL Wild Card: Cleveland. Edgardo Alfonzo will ensure the Angels miss the playoffs.
Cham-peen: The Cards beat the Athletes.

Also: since the cool kids are doing it, and it seems like fun (& plus a transparent way to brandish one's musical tastes), here're the results of my ipod Ching. No cheatin', no deletin'. Kinda funny. I like "God's Cop" & "The Luckiest Guy etc".

How does the world see you?
God’s Cop—Happy Mondays
Will I have a happy life?
Dream Baby—Beatles
What do my friends really think of me?
I Believe I’ll Dust My Broom—Robert Johnson
Do people secretly lust after me?
Kennel District-- Pavement
How can I make myself happy?
Funky DJ—Fried Chicken
What should I do with my life?
Air Mail Special (Good Enough To Keep)—Charlie Christian
Will I ever have children?
The James Bond Theme—Monty Norman
What is some good advice for me?
Closer—Lemon Jelly
How will I be remembered?
You’ve Changed—Joni Mitchell
What is my signature dancing song?
In 3’s—The Beastie Boys
What do I think my current theme song is?
Hummingbird-- Wilco
What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Rock Island Line—Sonny Terry & Brownie McGee
What song will play at my funeral?
The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side—Magnetic Fields
What type of women do you like?
I Was Made to Love Magic—Nick Drake
What is my day going to be like?
Peggy Sue—Buddy Holly

I hope you're enjoying spring, you bastards

Because I have "work" to "do," I can only press my face mournfully against my window and watch the children gambol in the limpid spring daylight. Hateful, verminous children. They'll die like everyone else someday. Why don't they realize that?

• My heart goes out to the Duke lacrosse team. No, wait... sorry, false alarm. My heart does not go out to the Duke lacrosse team. I saw a NYT photo featuring a house in Durham festooned with signs supporting the players. Among the slogans: "Rich Kids Unite." Yes, for too long, this fragmented and under-served community has lacked a voice.
• Last night at St. Nick's Pub, PM recounted how he recently kicked the ass of a withered old man inside a Supershuttle. The old man, upset over not being dropped off first, started flailing his fists and had to be, uh, forcibly restrained. This kind of thing seems to happen every time I take the Supershuttle, and I'm starting to think they should use the seediness and frustration of the Blue Van Experience as selling points. "Supershuttle: One of the few socially sanctioned ways to beat up old men and scream epithets at uncomprehending drivers."
• In Junagadh, India, I was diagnosed with typhoid, malaria, and yellow fever within the same week by the same confused doctor. I probably had none of these, but I sure took lots of pills. What neither my doctor nor I realized at the time is that Nyquil will cure any known disease. After last week's delightful sojourn in the stately pleasure-dome of Nyquil intoxication, I plan to reach for the bottle whenever I have a headache.

4 things they don't want you to know

Some nuggets upon which to gnaw as you sit, slack-jawed & drooling in front of the glowing screen. Corn Chips & Pie recognizes that you have a choice, and as you careen headlong toward the grave with nary a moment to spare, we appreciate your patronage.

• As a San Francisco Giants fan, it's hard to know what to root for this year. I'm holding out hope that, with George Mitchell's involvement, Barry Bonds will agree to stop using steriods in exchange for complete disarmament by Ulster loyalist militias.
• You'd think a gin, tonic, & grapefruit juice would have a name by now, but apparently not. So, in an act of mild hubris, my friend is trying to name it after himself. Help a brother out. Order a "Schachterle," pronounced "shack-ter-ly." Sigh heavily when the bartender pleads ignorance. That is, if a gin, tonic, & grapefruit juice appeals to you in the slightest.
• For those of you who aren't particularly xenophobic, but wish to hang your hat upon something less noxious than the refrain, "we need brown people to perform our filthy, low-wage labor," good news: the general consensus is that the current immigration situation is a small net benefit to our economy. (via Drum)
• But George Borjas, a Harvard economist, argues that there are severe equity considerations, with poor native-born Americans hit hardest through wage suppression. I haven't thought this through, but I'm inclined to think the equity gains in terms of benefits to the immigrants themselves more than outweigh the former concern. Not sure why I should care about a US citizen earning $8000/year losing 7% in wages more than a Mexican citizen earning $500/year gaining 700% in wages. Which is not to argue for unregulated immigration-- there are obviously other potentially more important considerations-- but I'm not entirely convinced by the wage/equity issue.

They come for the ass jokes, but they stay for the epidemiology

I'm a couple of weeks late on this, but just a few thoughts:

If you happened to read the article on HIV/AIDS drug trials by Celia Farber in this month's Harper's, and if you're only passingly familiar with the world of HIV/AIDS treatment and prevention and/or clinical trials, I could understand if you came away with a dim view of the AIDS "industry" and its nefarious aims. Farber's a decent writer, and she knows how to craft an argument. Unfortunately, the article is shockingly inaccurate, irresponsible, and wrong-headedly ideological. If you're interested, I suggest you check out this rebuttal by the South African Treatment Action Campaign.

It's hard to know what to make of Celia Farber. At best, she seems guilty of a sin she falsely attributes to HIV/AIDS researchers: becoming so heavily invested in an erroneous idea that it clouds her professional judgment. In her case, it's the notion that HIV is not the cause of AIDS. Her campaign to champion nutbag virologist Peter Duesberg has won her notoriety and acclaim from delusional dissident quarters, but it's no exaggeration to say that HIV denialism has cost countless lives where the idea holds sway (e.g., South African policymakers).

But this theme is awkwardly shoehorned into the article (like, lessee... like a capybara into a shot glass). Ostensibly, the article is about flaws in a nevirapine trial for preventing mother-to-child transmission of HIV. But toss in a little Duesberg, sprinkle liberally with sweeping falsehoods and inaccuracies, and you've got a new dish. The more I think about what she's actually arguing (she insists that critics are failing to separate the reporter from the subjects of her reporting, to which I say: dude, come on), the more I boggle.

Error-checking aside, Farber's one interesting duck. I mean, required to even minimally support her worldview are a) a total misapprehension of the aims, protocols, and interpretations of randomized controlled trials and epidemiology in general, b) complete ignorance of circumstances prevailing in poor countries, c) a view of "Africa" as a single monolithic dark continent, d) a perhaps initially virtuous skepticism of authority, coupled with tremendous credulity when it comes to "dissident" sources of information, and e) a spectacular ability to suspend disbelief in the face of absolutely overwhelming evidence. I can't believe she's actually an amoral careerist. And I can't believe that Harper's printed this bullshit.

This is much more immediately harmful than promoting a "debate" over intelligent design. This resurrects a heap of fatal lies under the auspices of open debate, and Harper's should immediately retract the article, or-- more realistically-- publish a lengthy rebuttal. Even the latter is unlikely to happen, so, taking a cue from this email, CC&P asks you to consider sending an email to Harper's (roger@harpers.org, sam@harpers.org, letters@harpers.org) asking them to print the TAC rebuttal.

The Observatory

Those of you who attended Burning Man a couple of years ago may recall an exhibit called "The Observatory." A single-file line stretched out the door into the desert night. One waited for ages as the line inched forward, eventually carrying patrons into the central dome of the observatory. The line circled around a central platform and led to the top, where people (one at a time) could peer into a scope mounted upon the platform.

The sequence of events was repeated with little variation: the viewer, a bit giddy with anticipation, entirely ignorant of the delights waiting through the lens, would squint into the scope, furrow his/her brow for a moment or two, and then burst out laughing. Then the viewer would be escorted into a back room.

Here was the Observatory's secret: the scope was linked to a hidden camera on the floor that offered a spectacular view of the viewer's ass-- and, if the viewer lacked undergarments, of the viewer's pubes. In the back room, a crowd of new initiates gathered below a big screen that featured a live view from the hidden camera. There were jeers, cheers, and howls. Does this sound as if it could get old quickly? It really didn't get old for me.

Were I feeling particularly clever at the moment, I would draw a devastating parallel between this exhibit and our current geopolitical situation. Or an aspect of contemporary literary criticism. Or Ray Liotta. I mean, this is a tailor-made bit of cultural crit right here. A layup. But my palsied, skinny arms can only send the ball clanging off the front of the rim. Time to retreat to a bubble bath with my pint of Ben & Jerry's and a fifth of Jameson. I need to treat myself. I deserve it.

Nyquil musings

During childhood, everyone witnesses a generation fading away along with its cultural moment. We don't know it at the time, of course. We regard older people-- here I'm thinking of teenagers-- as a static class with unchanging hairstyles, unchanging preferences in recreational drugs, unchanging facial hair configurations.

My generation's earliest memories are of the 1970s' final gasp as it graded into the 1980s. To a tiny kid, teenagers were the menacing guys working on their Trans Ams in the driveway, smoking pot, drinking Olympia, listening to Sabbath, and throwing dirt clods at you. We would all become them someday, we believed and feared. And they looked like Adam Morrison. So I felt a primal twinge of satisfaction watching him weep at midcourt the other day. Take that, teenager.

Pick 'em

Busy today, so I'll just point you to a variety of goings-on elsewhere.

• Josh Marshall is more pointed than usual in his justifiable takedown of Iraq's Coalition Provisional Authority hack Dan Senor: "Working with experts on post-war reconstuction was no more than pissing away time and expense on a tribe of effete paper-pushers. He's unperturbed and oblivious to the fact that the product of his cocky assuredness has descended into blood and fire." More here.
• The world's oldest tortoise has died, at age 250. They're carbon-dating his shell.
• Once, as a child, I walked outside following a last-second loss by the 49ers. Normally reliable, spectacularly mustachioed placekicker Ray Wersching had been wide right. Mr. Ray across the street was washing his car and said to me, under the correct assumption that I'd seen the game, "Never trust a kicker, son." Only now do I realize how right he was.

Also, homosexuals no longer must wear blue hat

Sometimes you just wonder if it's worth it. A $2 million Coke ad during the Super Bowl. A teaser ad for a Tim Allen movie in the 145th St. stop. An ad for the New York Stock Exchange. That marginal dollar might not be pulling its weight.

But the king of all squandered ad dollars must be the verbose, glossy "advertising supplements" you often see in magazines, taken out by the Government of Singapore ("Now With Less Caning"), Sao Tome & Principe ("Petro Dollars = Fantastic Hookers"), or some other developing country. They're all the same: a long description of industrial accomplishments, natural resources, the favorable investing climate, happy smiling people, and sound financial infrastructure. Who, you wonder, is gonna drop a couple million on a garment factory in Uruguay based on a fucking magazine ad?

And then I saw Sudan's supplement in Sunday's New York Times. Holy shit. If you win that trip with Nicholas Kristof, be prepared to hear about that one for a while. You'll be pulling your mummy bag over your head as he rants. (Also, I hear he's lactose-intolerant, so get a ventilated tent.)

Free speech, slippery slope, editorial principles, etc..... but man, if there's a standard for rejecting an advertisement, those from genocidal states must surely qualify. What an absolute disgrace. Nazi comparisons are almost always a bad idea, but go ahead & let your mind wander.

Beware the fish 'neath the stone

They caught another coyote in Central Park today. Reminds me. There's a tiny little patch of Manhattan, one of those flatiron triangles carved out by either train lines or poor planning, down in the West Village somewhere. This orphaned triangle, shaded by apartment buildings and adjacent to a busy avenue, is a "park"; that is, there are a couple of trees & a bench or two. The gilding on this lily is a pathway of flat limestone with images of trout etched upon it. Why trout? The park's name (cannot recall the name, sorry... it's "---kills," I think) is the Dutch name for the creek that ran through the area before heavy settlement. Apparently the creek was known for the plenitude of trout.

Now, of course, there is no creek. However, a small sign notes that nearby residents in the creek's former path have complained of leaks in the basement from time to time. I like to think of pale trout coursing underneath the buildings, following a hardy trickle of moisture through the soil, winding around basements and subway tunnels.

Riding the Nyquil dragon

wherever it takes me.... more from the Other Side later.

It's all in the reflexes

• The #1 complaint by first-time visitors to San Francisco is that Chinatown bears little resemblance to the one pictured in Big Trouble In Little China. Meanwhile, residents of Chinatown bitch about the striking dissimilarities between tourists and Kurt Russell. I think both sides need to compromise a bit.
• Up The Bracket: I bid my crisp Hamilton goodbye when I realized, too late, that Elvis Stojko wasn't in the tournament at all. I had him in the Final Four, losing to Gorman Thomas in a nailbiter.
• I recommend the fancy new planetarium show at the NY Museum of Natural History. It's pretty neat, and plus the security guards are ruthless in their ejection of whiny babies.
• With impending departure from NYC later this year, CC&P is gonna take full advantage of this big city. Rock & roll show tonite, Jewish shrink tomorrow morning, maybe a slap in the face in the afternoon.
• I used to buy all my food from Trader Joe's when I lived in SF & DC. I greeted news of a NY store with a girlish squeal. Then the Special Lady & I walked by the new store today, and saw a line down the goddamn block... all simply waiting to enter the store & shop. I'll wait a week or so to get my 58 pounds of dried goods, frozen peas, and $2 wine.
• Collected Insults, V. III, from The Wild Palms: "...a red-faced cold-eyed man of about fifty, with a highwayman's head and the body of a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound college fullback gone to fat, in a suit of expensive tweed which nevertheless looked on him as if he had taken it from a fire sale at the point of a pistol..." This reminds me of pretty much everybody I saw on the streets at 10am in Boston on St. Patrick's Day, swaying from the 11 pints of Harp they'd downed already, with wallets $25 lighter from the cover charge at The Burren or wherever.

There is no such thing as a coincidence. There are only lying hippies.

In Boston now. Short post, arbitrary memory:

When I was living in DC, I picked up some pots & pans & small furniture from an acquaintance who was moving to Paris. On my way home from her place, I got an excited phone call from my friend DS, who had just caught a foul ball at a Giants game.

Then, exactly one year later, I picked up some small items of furniture from another acquaintance who was moving to Paris. On my way home from her place, I got a phone call from DS, who had just caught his second foul ball at a ballgame.

This phenomenon ended there. Although DS did catch another foul ball, demonstrating irrefutable evidence of a prior pact with Satan, my apartment is not brimming over with French knicknacks.

M's Cafe

There's a place on 9th Avenue in San Francisco's Inner Sunset district that I dream of once in a while. These reveries are usually prompted by a crappy $12 yuppie "brunch special" in the East Village, or by my frequent visits to Cafe Reme (truly a good, solid greasy spoon, with lovely old ladies giving you affectionate smartassery; but the food's a little shitty & the prices are still a little high) in Washington Heights. Actually, hold on. Let's stick on Cafe Reme for a second. How does one pronounce Reme? Nobody seems to know. Ream? Remay? Remeh? The waitresses are befuddled as well. The original Monsignor Reme departed years ago, leaving neither oral history nor a pronunciation guide.

Anyway, M's Cafe is a small, unassuming place promising "Traditional American and Irish breakfasts," advertised by a wooden sign with a crudely painted hamburger. It is owned & operated by an extremely friendly Chinese couple, often with assistance from one of their kids. The thrift-store decor seems arbitrary (but may in fact constitute an elaborate symbology detailing plans for an underground postal system, or a dirty joke, or the human genome): a picture of Pope John Paul II, a photograph of a bowl of fruit, an architectural plan for a house. The plastic flowers have drops of glue on their petals to simulate dew.

And listen: for $3.55, you can get the "M's Special": Two eggs any style. Sausage, ham, or bacon. Home fries. And a cup of coffee. And a glass of orange juice. AND a stack of pancakes or french toast. For $2.75, you can get all of the above minus the home fries. And-- the astonishing thing-- it's all pretty good. If you are so inclined, get a burger: they're big and tasty, and the cheeseburgers are $2.