ABOUT LAST WEEKEND EPISODE II: ATTACK OF THE CYCLONE

(Before getting started, I should point out that this may be my last post in a while, since K. and I are taking a road trip to California on Saturday.

Until I return, feel free to browse my other site, reellifeallaboutmymovies.blogspot.com/, where my thoughts on Sin City are posted. Happy Passover! I promise to write about the trip when I get back.

Coming soon: ABOUT LAST WEEKEND EPISODE III: REVENGE OF THE ROADSIDE DINER FOOD!)

Sometimes, I think my life is pretty mundane. It’s times like these where I’m fortunate to have someone as cool as K. to share my existence with.

Granted, K. didn’t actually force me to go with her on The Cyclone, a.k.a. the Thrill Ride With More Plunges Than a Survey of Necklines on the Oscar Night Red Carpet. But what can I say? When you’re with someone like K., who makes fun look like so much… fun, you inevitably find yourself in situations like the Rickety Wooden Roller Coaster from Hell. Something of an r. c. aficionado, K. seemed genuinely impressed by Coney Island’s non-hot dog-related claim to notoriety. Me, I’m just proud I managed to endure nose-dives at freight train speed without wetting myself or injuring my vocal folds screaming like a little girl.

I didn’t expect death-defying thrills when I got out of bed that morning. Had a weekend gig sorting paper at a law firm in Rockefeller Center. It was supposed to keep me occupied until late into the night, which meant I wouldn’t be able to hang with K. She, meanwhile, wanted to use her sister’s car, which we borrowed last time we were in Maryland. A black Toyota Corolla, it sat parked in the driveway of the "X" family estate.

So K., her roommate C., and her roommate’s pal S., took a bus into the bowels of Brooklyn to fetch said vehicle. Around this time, I was returning from a mid-day break, ready to continue sorting paper, when the attorney informed us that he was fatigued and would be going home. He suggested we do the same. Before I knew what had happened, my feet were hitting pavement. I called K. to let her know.

Who can predict the dramatic ramifications of a moment’s action? How was I to know that, by telling K. I was getting out of work early, I unknowingly set the gears turning for the machinery of my own kidnapping? I got out of the subway at Avenue U, and was minding my own business, when from out of nowhere came the black Toyota Corolla, affectionate girlfriend behind the wheel. Next thing I knew, the brisk Coney Island Avenue wind was whipping through my hair as I sat seatbelted in the back. I resigned myself to my fate, and simply "went along for the ride," as the saying goes.

After eating famous Nathan’s hot dogs on the Coney Island boardwalk, K. sought out the much-reputed Cyclone. She did not seem the least put-off by the constant screaming that reverbated from passengers already engaged in the ups-and-downs of the aforementioned amusement ride. C. and S. were likewise interested. As for me, I continued an already-established pattern of behavior and "went along for the ride." Next thing I knew, I was ascending a steep wooden track inside a coffin-shaped wooden toboggan. From the highest point of the summit, I could see my house in the distance. Before I could mention it, however, the car seemed to drop out from under me with all the force of an elevator car suddenly snapped from its hooks. For the next few minutes, I found myself the wide-eyed, clench-jawed, white-knuckled prisoner of the Cyclone. Oh, that cruel mistress!

The experience was harrowing. It was terrifying. I prayed for God to smite me rather than endure another precipitous dip, or another hairpin turn on what I feared were unstable tracks. The ride went on forever. When it was finally over, of course, my immediate instinct was to turn to K., who had been seated beside me all along, and ask, "You wanna go again?"

Must be Stockholm Syndrome. Or maybe all the fun K. was having simply got to me. She's contagious, after all, so situations like these are inevitable.

* * *
So we left Coney Island, and took a drive to a nearby abandoned airfield. I won’t mention the airfield by name. Anyone with a Brooklyn map, however, can probably figure out which one it is.
Now, the airfield isn’t exactly open to the public, so K., C., S., and I walked around the wooden fence that had been erected outside the site, looking for a way in. Eventually, we found loose boards at different spots and took turns sneaking inside. Imagine having a recently, though not vigorously, bombed-out city for a playground! That’s what it was like cavorting in and about the discarded hangars.

We ran through large, vacant rooms that once housed airplances. There were deep fissures in the concrete ground, and rusty skeletons of staircases to ascend. We trollied about on the clean, flat floor of one hangar on a cart that had been left behind. We hurled bricks at windows. The windows broke, dribbling bits of glass through wire mesh. C. and S. found rolls of left behind caution tape, and took them home as souvenirs. K. and I took home metal signs from the south side of the hangar, a room with giant pipes and huge caps that might have weighed thirty pounds or more each. The signs hung from wire. K. undid the knots with her most dexterous fingers.

The only tense moment, for me anyway, was watching K. climb a ladder that ran two stories up to the roof of the hangar’s east side. By the time she reached the top of the ladder, she looked so small against the roof’s metal sheeting. I watched the shadows of her shoes through cracks of light in the ceiling, and felt fixed to the spot with worry until K. climbed down again.

Running back across the airfield from the north to the south side, we found some heavy nuts on the ground. A single nut left an impressive mark in the windows. We could have spent another hour just hurling those bits of metal at the windows. But I saw a white truck with lights on its roof through a part of the fence made of wire mesh. The truck had lights on its roof, which gave its inhabitants an air of officialdom. We ran to the nearest hole in the fence and escaped. Rather than sneak back in to the airfield after the truck drove away, we ran to the adjacent field, and tormented geese. Soon after, it became dark, so we went home. Thus ended one of the most fun afternoons in recent memory.

DECISION ’05: WHO WILL BE THE NEXT POPE?

The hubbub over who will succeed the late Pope John Paul II has barely started, but personally, I think it should get as much American television airplay as last year’s Presidential Election. After all, Catholics are a major political force in this country. Judging by a recent ABC news poll, they might also be the most progressive-leaning of the major Christian religious sects.

According to said poll, the majority of American Catholics are pro-choice. The same sample information said the majority of American Catholics support gay marriages and civil unions. Granted, ABC could have limited its polling to the state of Massachusetts, specifically Ted Kennedy. But that’s not giving Catholics enough credit.

Churches willing to perform gay marriage ceremonies have been popping up all over the northeast. For many homosexuals, having their union blessed by God and the church, under the rites of Catholicism, is of tremendous importance. Rewarding this kind of loyalty, welcoming it, is incredibly smart behavior on the part of the Catholic church. Because the Christian faith needs to amass as many potential soldiers as possible for the upcoming war with the Muslim countries.

But who will be the next Pope, and will the candidates get the requisite airtime, given how important it is to select the right man for the job? Will we, the American people, get to know our candidates, the way we did the Democratic Presidential wannabes? I hope so. Come on, ABC!

Bring on the outsider Archbishop, the guy who wants to be the Pope for all those guys down South who have Confederate flags on their pick-up trucks. Bring on the youthful Archbishop with the Southern drawl, who makes up for his lack of experience with an ebullient personality. Or the fiscally-conservative Pope candidate, who has good ideas and lots of experience, if only we could get over his stodginess and lack of height. And let’s not forget the paternal-looking, Brahmin of Archbishops, who spent years in the jungle spreading the word of God, and seems the most Pope-ish of all potential Popes.

Of course, some of the most impressive Catholic faith-spreading seems to be occurring in Africa. As a result, the electing of a black Pope might not be entirely out of the question. One can only hope, however, that if Pope ’05 resembles the Democratic nomination process of ’04, the black candidate isn’t a Reverend. That candidate didn’t get any of the vote. But an African Pope, who has seen the ravages of AIDS first-hand, could accomplish something important that John Paul II failed to do: Address the need for safe sex education, and allow the use of condoms.

The possibilities for the next Pope are certainly intriguing. But like Decision ’04, I can’t help believing Decision ’05 will ultimately yield more of the same. Status quo; someone who appeals to the conservative extremes. Stagnation in the face of God.

* * *

!Hola! Click on the following links to read reviews for Shaun of the Dead and Robot Stories!

ARE YOU BEING AN ASSHOLE, OR IS IT JUST ME?

So I stayed over at K.’s place the other night. She had to be at work by ten the next morning, and I planned to spend all day at my future CUNY digs, studying for my Phonetics of American English class back in the year 2000. It was a little after nine by the time we got on the subway bound for Manhattan. Little did I suspect, however, that upon entering the alphabetically-designated tin can projected via electrified rail, I had also crossed the threshold into "The Glaring Zone."

(doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo)

It went down like this: K. and I entered the car from the rear door, and proceeded up the middle aisle towards the center, where we saw more room. The car wasn’t crowded. All the seats happened to be taken, but we gravitated towards the middle of the car because no one was standing there. Also, K.’s my girlfriend. Standing next to her in the subway makes conversations between us a whole lot easier.

As we proceeded towards said empty space, I noticed this woman—business suit, haired tied straight-back in a ponytail—staring at me. This moment of recognition occurred very briefly, and at first, I looked away. But a few seconds later, as K. and I walked past her, I took another glance. Lo and behold, the woman was still staring at me. She was holding onto the bar that rises vertically from the subway car floor to the ceiling. I was standing at a completely different angle from where the front of her body was positioned, which made her glaring at me all the more obvious.

To this day, I’m not sure why this person felt I required so much of her attention. Perhaps I had something hanging out of my nose; maybe my hair was on fire, and I didn’t realize it. Or maybe she just found me so darn cute, she couldn’t help staring at me. It could have been any one of those things, but I doubt her motivations were so innocent. If scientific inquiry had been the primary justification of glaring intently at me, the scowl on the woman’s face lent an air of undeniable menace that countered such idealistic expectations. That was no friendly eye-lock projected from her twin head-orbs. And walking past her, beneath the shadow of her icy stare, I couldn’t help feeling the woman was trying to intimidate me.

So I did as my inner third-grader commanded: I stared the woman down. The contest didn’t last very long. I clearly won when she adjusted her stance and said to me, "Do you have a problem?"

"Hmm?" was my reply. I should have answered more clearly, but I was still basking in the glow of my staring contest victory.

"Do you have a problem, because you’re starin’ at me," the woman said.

"No," I said, though I never quite ceased staring at her. Nor did I rescind my wide, Cheshire Cat grin.

"You better not have no problem, ‘cuz this is the wrong day to mess with me." Bold words, but the woman’s eyes retreated from their affront for the first time since I walked into the car. Her sentinel orbs went wandering off in other directions, as their bearer muttered something under her breath. Doubtlessly, whatever brief spasms that came sputtering out of her pharynx bore weighty importance. Trust that I kick myself regularly for not hearing what the woman had to say. But alas, as she turned her head away from me, thus giving me full view of her brown-skinned earlobe, I couldn’t help noticing the pearl earring which hung from the drooping wad of skin. Very understated, very pleasant to look at. I wondered if I should get my mother something similar as a present.

"Nice earring," I said aloud. Then I turned away once and for all.

The woman mumbled something else, then sucked her teeth, and groused incoherently. Or maybe she expressed her thoughts coherently, and I just didn’t bother listening. A few stops later, I bid K. good-bye and got off the train.

Had I been, like Prince’s father, too bold? My mother, had she been there, would have looked down upon my actions. Let people stare at you, is what she would say. You never know. They might be crazy. If you confront them, they might shoot you.

Also, I realize that any actions I perform are an expression of my personal politics. In hindsight, I wonder: Did I stare down the woman who was staring me down because I dislike black people, or dislike women? After giving the subject lengthly thought, I can honestly say no. I did not, and do not, have problems with either blacks or women. If anyone had an issue with anything, it was the Tyler Perry drama character-wannabe who glared at me menacingly over the victimless crime of walking onto the same subway car as her. And frankly, her immediately hostile response to my going eyeball-to-eyeball with her—after she had been the first to fire invisible eyebeams at a non-hostile target—only proves she was the one with the attitude problem.

As far as my personal politics go, I believe every man, woman, and child has the right to get on a subway car in a majority-Negro neighborhood, without getting glared at by a mad black woman. Unless you’re boarding the specifically-designated "Mad Black Women Who Glare at You Only" train. But I’m pretty sure that, on that particular morning, there were other people on the car who weren’t mad black women glaring at me. Or maybe I’m wrong and everybody was a mad black woman glaring at me. Maybe I should count my lucky stars that I didn’t get shot.