Manhattan Transfer

Samantha Power: Monster Slayer!

2008-03-08T12:02:00.004-05:00

Three years ago this month, Samantha Power made it on to the pages of Manhattan Transfer

My first reaction to seeing Samantha Power’s [latest public gaffe] was to recall recall that she was pretty cute when we were in college together. She wasn’t much of a drinker and seemed entirely immune to my many charms but she had a great smile, eyes that sparkled and an impressive figure.

My second reaction was to remember how annoying her politics were. She was always saying that what the world needed was another government with weapons, fighting men, and the power to tax, jail and destroy. She seemed entirely immune to any evidence about the dangers of global governance.

A typical conversation with Samantha would go something like this.

Samantha: “The lack of an international enforcement mechanism is a terrible weakness for international law that needs to be remedied through creating new institutions and stregthening existing ones.”

ManhattanTransfer: “It’s pretty when you push your hair back like that and get excited.”

Samantha: “Can you take your hand off my knee? Did you know you’re spilling whiskey on your shirt?”

ManhattanTransfer: “Let’s find some place quieter to talk.”

More here.

On Hiatus

2008-02-21T22:45:00.002-05:00

Although the writers strike is now settled, this blog will continue to be on indefinite hiatus. Which is a shame because I never enjoyed anything in my life so much as the trouble this thing brought me. Maybe I'll bring it back soon.

But recent past performance suggests I won't.

In the meantime, I'm reading DealBreaker.com for the latest financial shenanigans and I've discovered one of these tumblr things by a feller named John Carney that's worth reading. Tumblr is great. It's like blogspot circa 2004. Thank God it's always 2004 somewhere.

Palm Trees Are Candles In The Murder Wind

2007-10-23T22:13:00.000-04:00

Just You And Me, Punk Rock Girl!

2007-07-24T16:07:00.000-04:00

Into Action

2007-06-11T16:05:00.001-04:00

Let's get moving, into action.

A song to celebrate the defeat of the immigration bill. Songs of redemption, songs of war, and songs like this to pack the dance floor.

I'm Going To Hold On To You As Long As I Can

2007-05-11T01:58:00.000-04:00

Why I own glasses

2007-05-02T22:49:00.000-04:00

Scene - walking to the subway after ~~a nap~~ watching some Tribeca documentaries earlier today.

Me, trying not to drop the book I'm precariously carrying: "(Mmnph)"

Man in a delivery truck on Canal street: "MnnHmnn... I want you to teach me science."

Exeunt.

— Miss Anna

Down on the corner

2007-04-11T14:33:00.000-04:00

We were out on the street again. Festivities were at full tilt inside. There were writers hungry for attention, men in suits looking confused, and girls looking for a place to throw their panties. It was time for a break.

Someone handed me a cigarette. Down on the corner, there was a couple taking their frustrations out on each other.

She wore sensible shoes and a longish skirt that shortened her. He wore a generic man costume and her tote bag on his shoulder.

They were the kind of couple that has public street fights that aren’t brought on by alcohol and jealousy. They had the look of cat owners.

It was hard to gauge the severity of this fight. Onlookers took bets.

She was pouting, reprimanding, and generally acting as if he had screwed up. He probably had screwed up. But the tirade was beginning to border on abuse. We quietly rooted for the man to slap her, but he refrained.

I hoped that he would scream back, approach her a bit menacingly, and sweep her up in a kiss. That didn’t happen.

The bartender was sure the man would walk off soon. We pointed out the tote bag. He recalculated his prognosis. It didn’t look good.

And then, the man stalked off, a glimpse of freedom within his grasp. Our spirits were lifted, but quickly dashed when the woman put up no protest. He took a few non-committal steps before lowering his head and returning for more of the same.

Leaning against a building, he laid the sensible tote bag on the ground with a heavy sigh.

She got into the passenger seat of a parked car and slammed the door. He followed around with her tote bag in tow. Or maybe it was his tote bag. It could have been his tote bag.

They pulled away from the corner and things started to look brighter. Moments like this were designed to make people who spend too much time in bars feel better about themselves. Inside it was the opposite.

As their car disappeared around a corner in all its taupe, MT hobbled out of the party with an unhappy man in his wake.

“I hate book parties.”

The open bar appeared to be shuttered.

“Why does this guy have to rub his success in everyone’s face? So you got a bunch of money to write a book everyone will pretend to read. Who cares?...”

Different unhappy men had given this speech before.

“Oi… whiskey?”

“…I’m done feeling sorry for myself, though. I shouldn’t envy that guy. He should envy me. You can’t buy happiness — he’ll be miserable in three months.”

There was a cab coming toward us and a life devoid of taupe to be had if we wanted it. The night still held promise. Numbers were exchanged. Cabs were shared. People fell onto the streets of Chinatown. Tomorrow there would be regrets, but that was the thing about tomorrow. It wasn’t here yet.

“…Blah blah blah… bankers blah blah over privileged… blah Alex P. Keaton.. blah blah … white men...”

This was getting tedious: “Oh stop. You sound like poor people.”

The car winked at us and we got in. As we sped away from the curb, the lights of the bridge beamed down and the colors blurred on West Broadway.

— Miss Anna

WSM: Your M.O.D. For My BOD

2007-04-03T19:08:00.000-04:00

Buxom 20-something writer type seeks older man to provide stability and blue blood in exchange for rejuvenated literary career. You can call me the secret to your success. I’ll call you Hot Bottom. But only in private.

— Miss Anna

Georgette Mosbacher Observes Christopher Buckley

2006: The Way It Was

2007-03-13T17:59:00.000-04:00

My friend Lawrence made this fantastic video. It does a great job of capturing another year of our lives.

Have you seen this man?

2007-01-16T14:36:00.000-05:00

Question. Is this an inappropriate gift for a friend who just got run over?

— Miss Anna

Nothing good happens in Brooklyn after midnight

2007-01-05T11:33:00.000-05:00

The last time I was on the Upper East Side for New Year’s, I passed the final moments of the year overlooking a dimly lit pool with a lawyer in my arms and caviar on ice. That seemed worth a repeat. But as it was the Upper East Side, we arrived early.

Very prescient, that. Medea was a little negligent with the details for the party she wrought. She was after a hot med student from Columbia. Perhaps the only one. It was worth the effort. For her. The rest of us were on our own with an overripe cheese plate.

There was a man with a bouffant at this party. We would not be staying. Once I saw Medea settled in with her med, I asked them if they needed anything to drink. They said no. I made a beeline for the front door. On the way out, I corralled the rest of our party and we hopped in a cab pointed toward Brooklyn. Medea would thank me later.

There was a house party and friends djing at a bar in the borough. We promised no soldier would be left behind. We always promise that.

On the way down, I got word that the house party was being abandoned. We tried rerouting to the Hall and nearly got dropped off by the Watchtower because one of us couldn’t shut up about the window not functioning properly. I won’t say who lacked traveling etiquette, but the homeless man on the median telling us our cab was busted did not improve the driver’s mood. His year was not ending well. Ours might not either.

In fact, we might all be Jehovah’s Witnesses today if Frenchie hadn’t started chatting up the driver. Or showed some leg. Either way, she was in the front seat. She fixed things.

When we were filing inside the bar, I realized I didn’t have any money. I told the lovebirds I needed to go to the ATM. They didn’t believe me, and gave me an escort to make sure I didn’t make a run for it.

Inside was so crowded I forgot it was Brooklyn. A man in a loud shirt inside the door liked my dress and gave me an escort to the bar. But getting a drink proved difficult. It appeared to be close to midnight. With drinks in hand, we made our way through the crowd.

We appeared to be just in time. 8. I spotted the crew holding court on the dance floor. 7. Hugs all around. 6. I was given champagne. 5. Someone grabbed me. 4. Mnn. 3. Frank was playing. 2. Sigh.1. Kisses.

Those lasted for a while. And then there was dancing. The music was so good I forgot my feet hurt. I took a trip through the crowd and wondered why I didn’t come to Brooklyn more often. The Non-Blonde was there, but I almost didn’t recognize her. Reunions were had. There may have been ridiculousness. Brooklyn was great.

The Girls were in rare form. Memories were made. There were shiny hats and broken glasses. Things were stolen. This was New Year’s.

Time passed. Despite their fear of being left behind, it was the lovebirds who had made a quick exit. This was allowed. The Girls were also leaving, but the Former Non-Blonde was sure I should stay. The music was great. Everyone was going back to Manhattan. I’d be fine.

In retrospect, things were not fine. If only friends came with a sticker that displayed their level of drunkenness. In ten more minutes, The Former Non-Blonde would be dropping the speaker on a woman with a very large boyfriend. The woman might survive the impact, but the speaker would not. And no one would be going back to Manhattan.

But there is no such sticker. And Prince was playing. I stayed.

Soon, a small Asian man attached himself to Jodi Foster. The boy I was dancing with started talking. MT began negotiations to fight the boyfriend of said speaker squished girl. The music had stopped. Dignity was lost. Brooklyn was over.

I took a step outside. It was raining. Wasn’t this winter? Were we still in New York? There were crowds of damp people in shiny outfits as far as the eye could see. How did I get here? Where were the cabs?

I took a look at the corners filled with zombies making vain attempts to get yellow cars to whisk them away and began to lose heart.

But just as I was about to lose faith in the New Year, I saw a figure walking toward me. It was the Getaway Kid, come to rescue me in my time of need. He’d been nearby and came to see how things were progressing. He saw the look on my face and knew it was time to go. We sped off into the night, and rang in the New Year on our way back to civilization.

— Miss Anna

I almost bought a Christmas tree today

2006-12-23T23:56:00.000-05:00

It’s the day before Christmas Eve in New York. I missed my plane this morning and spent four hours at the airport, trying to remember why I stayed out until 4 in the morning the night before my flight. In retrospect, a bit of vigilance might have gotten me on the plane, but once I had a slip of paper in my hand with a seat number, I thought I’d make it home. While I was trying to stay awake and out of the way, someone with a stronger dedication to Christmas was proving how they would better utilize seat 13A.

And after three hours of waiting for another flight, the disgruntled stewardess at the gate, unlike the male stewardess at the baggage check who cheerfully sent my belongings off to the Midwest without me, told me there was no guarantee I could get on a plane before Christmas. As much as I feared spending over a day in JFK, the possibility of doing so and still not getting anywhere was too much for me. That and the man sleeping on his suitcase who kept drooling on the floor.

My father had been waiting for two hours on the other end when I sent him home. I didn’t have the dedication to the holiday to compete with these people for a seat. It was my third year as an aunt, and we were celebrating a new engagement, but I’d have to send my congratulations over the phone. This isn't my holiday and I wasn’t cut out for airport endurance tests.

I hopped in a cab and spent the better part of the day in my apartment, tending to the hangover. On my way to get some day before Christmas Eve tacos, I walked past the tree sellers on my corner. The arches that supported the trees were nearly bare. Only one lone tree sat propped up against the two by fours. I felt more than a little for that sad tree, wrapped up in twine like a poorly manufactured cigar, waiting to be wrapped in lights tomorrow or kicked to the curb the day after. Against my better judgment, I found myself wanting to buy it.

The slick streets and balmy weather today did not feel very festive. Having that tree might have helped make it feel more like Christmas. But I only owned one ornament, a stray Secret Santa gift that I keep neglecting to chuck. Chances are the tree would stay tightly wrapped in my apartment, but at least it would be off the streets for a night.

And it was on sale. I felt obliged to take it home with me (puppy sales inspire the same ill advised urge). But aside from the guilt of letting another plant die in the confines of my poorly lit apartment, there was the nagging reminder that Christmas trees are my least favorite part of the holiday.

Looking at them, I am always reminded of the layer of needles that the dried husk would leave on the rug every March when someone in my family finally remembered to drag the thing to the curb.

It was a laziness that pervaded the whole affair. We neglected to move the tree from the garage to the living room until the last possible moment so many years in a row that tree decoration had become a Christmas Eve tradition. And while Sharon was busy preparing the house for guests, the children were responsible for realizing her yearly vision.

Once we had a Blue Christmas, another year was a Circus theme. In 1985 it was a Very Nutcracker Christmas. The Muffin Maker and I thought we had cultivated inordinate skill at avoiding the decorating task, but The Little One had one-upped us.

She was in the laundry room watching Ela get washed. The knit penguin had materialized somewhere around The Little One’s second birthday, and the kid hadn’t been able to tear herself away from it since. By this Christmas, Ela was missing an eye, had lost her little orange hat, and was just barely distinguishable from a beloved, but abused old sock. And at some point, The Little One had decided that poking a hole through Ela’s bottom big enough for her thumb brought her a good deal of comfort. All attempts to provide newer, cleaner playthings were fruitless.

And efforts to remove the thumb up Ela’s ass in polite company were regarded as frontal assaults. More than a few glasses were broken at dinner parties before Sharon realized that a passive buggering of Ela was preferable to the ear splitting scream that The Little One reserved for precisely this sort of attack. But the thing would at least be clean for the guests.

So on this Christmas Eve, Ela was still in the washer on rinse when Sharon threatened to hide our house from Santa Claus if the tree wasn’t decorated within the next hour, leaving The Muffin Maker and I to attack each other and the tree with tiny Nutcrackers on our own.

Except Sharon was only half joking about withholding presents. The next day, there were plenty of gifts under the tree. Maybe more than usual. But there were only a few brief moments of unwrapping bliss before we were told that the quality of gifts was indeed too good to be true.

My older sister and I had gotten to that awkward girl age where our inability to care for ourselves was in direct conflict with our disdain for our every parental interaction. Still completely dependent on the two people responsible for our well-being for most everything, we had a growing disdain for them and all things related to them. This caused some trouble when we expected to receive gifts.

But this year, Sharon had decided to take action. She waited until The Muffin Maker and I had ripped through all of our wrapped treats:

“This year you pick. One. Gift. Each. The rest go … BACK.”

The Little One was happily tearing at her packages when The Muffin Maker and I began to counter this maneuver with angry groveling.

She seemed equally distraught, for a second, but we were too busy weeping over the best video games and dolls we had ever seen to pay much mind.

The unfairness of it all. The Muffin Maker and I quickly began foraging through our piles in search of the most perfect gift. We were in the midst of brokering a truce to garner some manner of combined excellence when I vaguely noticed that The Little One had stopped opening her gifts.

And then, as I pondered the Nintendo Zapper Light Gun in my left hand and the Strawberry Berry Buggy in my right, The Little One stood up. She parted her booty and made a disdainful nod towards her boxes. With a thumb in the ass of her favorite one-eyed penguin, she padded out of the room.

The Muffin Maker and I were impressed with her steely resolve for a moment. But then someone threw the Pie Man across the room and we were engaged in a war over whose gift would have access to the Barbie Club House upstairs.

“…We should have given them coal like we planned.”

That shut us up quickly enough. During dinner, Sharon gave a lecture about the true meaning of Christmas. As I had a policy of not paying attention to speeches that made me look bad, I was still picking scallions out of my mashed potatoes when The Muffin Maker punched me in the arm. Turns out, with some efforts at remorse, we would be permitted to keep each and every piece of swag that we had opened that day. Apologies and hugs all around.

Later in the night, after The Muffin Maker and I finished our first (and final) game of Duck Hunt, I noticed an extra lump under the Christmas tree. I went over to see what sort of goodie we had missed. But it was just The Little One. She had fallen asleep under the tree wrapped around her penguin, with a smile of utter content on her face. My dad scooped her in his arms to carry her up to bed. For a moment as I followed them up the stairs, I found myself wishing that I had what she had.

And walking through the city's streets tonight, noticing the strange calm of an empty city, I felt a little more alone than usual. When the man on the corner wished me a Merry Christmas, I almost bought one of his trees. In the Christmas spirit and all. But in the end, it wasn’t quite what I was looking for.
—Miss Anna

Fight Crime, Drink Wine

2006-12-07T17:52:00.000-05:00

Dedicated to you, CZ. Good luck out there in Hollywood.

Ley Royal Scam video

2006-12-07T17:15:00.000-05:00

I've been meaning to post something here for the longest time. Maybe it will be a New Year's resolution. For now, here's a video for Teeter Sperber's band, LRS.

A Strategy For A Republican Victory in 2008

2006-11-06T19:24:00.000-05:00

It looks like the Republicans are in for trouble tomorrow. The House is going down to the Dems, and probably the Senate too. Five or six governor’s mansions will switch over to the Democrats. I know some of my Republican friends are probably going to go to bed either depressed or in denial (“we only lost the Senate by one seat, that’s a victory!”).

So, as a favor to them, I offer the following proposals for building a Republican victory in 2008.

1. You didn’t get enough Hispanic votes this time. Clearly what we need are more Hispanic voters! Annex Mexico, or at least grant everyone in Mexico the right to vote in 2008. They’ve almost as much stake as anyone else in who runs America, so why shouldn’t they have a say? All those Mexican Catholics are bound to be naturally conservative, GOP voters. Bring them into the big tent!

2. Invade Iran! Those “the terrorists want the Democrats to win” almost worked this time around. The only problem is that Iraq isn’t scary enough to most Americans. It’s far away, and seems unlikely to spill over into some sort of global, nuclear conflict killing lots of American civilians. So bring on the next war! With all those Iranians up in arms, that’s surely got to get some Americans thinking about security again. If we don’t invade Iran, the terrorists and the Democrats win!

3. Speaking of not being scared enough, isn’t it time to start increasing investment from the ruling class of the Gulf States? Sure people kind of misunderstood the whole Dubai Ports deal the first time around. By why stop with the ports when we have all those airports, power plants and military bases to run? You’re Republicans, so start privatizing that stuff. And help Americans get to know our Middle East allies better by privatizing it into their hands.

4. Crack down on the right of your own party. Look, we all know your party is full of bigots and religious fanatics. It’s time you started telling these people who is boss. This may alienate some of your base, and drive some white male voters into the arms of your rivals. But that’s a feature, not a bug. You get way too many votes from white people right now. It’s totally embarrassing. And this will totally help you garner Asian, black and Hispanic votes. For every two dozen white male votes you lose, you’ll probably get 1.4 minority votes. Think about that. Get excited.

5. Keep supporting left-wing Republicans. Look how well that’s working. I mean, sure Chafee is going to lose. And supporting Arlen Specter probably cost Rick Santorum his seat. But these things work like clockwork. Think pendulmns. All these years of losing with the people the media like to call “moderates” is bound to pay off one of these days. And maybe that day will be an election day in a couple of years. Nominate Rudy!

6. More spending! Sure, you spent and spent and spent for the last five years. But I guarantee the Democrats are going to come in and try to spend even more. Resist the temptation to call for spending cuts. That’ll just make you look like hypocrites. Call for more spending. New entitlement programs. There’s got to be somebody who still needs a prescription drug program, right?

7. Keep reminding people how we’re on the path to victory in Iraq. Sure it made you seem weird and out of touch this time. But the alternative was to admit that things went terribly while you were in charge. So keep up the unreality. And then, if by some miracle (fingers crossed!), we get out of Iraq intact, you can claim credit.

8. We need more amendments. Flag amendments, marriage amendments, locking-people (who may be terrorists)-up without trials amendments. If the founding fathers didn’t want Amendments, why’d they pass ten of them? Being against Amerndments is anti-American. And, let’s face it, you’re not going to actually pass any of these amendments. So even if we don’t need them, you should start calling for them early and often.

9. Judges! I know, I know. I can’t believe this trick of talking about judges ever couple of years at election time, and then not doing anything about them, really works. But it does. Keep it up.

10. Can we talk about Hillary? Let’s get her nominated. Those Clintons are total political poison and always lose. Except, you know, on election days. But those are only a couple of days a year! We could totally move election day to a Wednesday—Amendment time!—and then we’d beat her for sure. Clintons win on Tuesdays. But America wins on Wednesdays. I smell a slogan!

So cheer up, fellas and fellettes. We're just ten steps away from a Republican victory in 2008.

October Rain and the Saddest Words In The Language

2006-10-13T18:13:00.000-04:00

It’s only Wednesday, which means it’s too early in the week to be out this late at night. Lately I’ve been having to get up at the same time as all the human beings so keeping these zombie hours is getting a bit rough. But the clock on my phone keeps pushing the numbers after the 3 higher and higher. It’s 3:15. And then it’s 3:22. And now it’s 3:43.

I step outside the bar for a smoke. A long avenue cutting down through the lower east side toward the end of Manhattan stretches out in front of me. The streets are slick with rain and a few light drops are still falling. The tops of the trees look yellow under the street lights but I’m not sure if they’ve changed with the season or it’s just the lighting. I’m sure there’s a full moon in the sky somewhere behind those clouds but that’s a secret kept from those of us whose vantage point is from the ground up.

A young woman who I had been speaking to in the bar follows me outside. She’s got long, very straight blonde hair and excited eyes. She had been drinking a vodka and soda, with an extra lime thrown in. I couldn’t remember what we were talking about but I think it had to do with why I was wearing a suit at half past three in the morning. I told it wasn’t an interesting story because it wasn’t. And that’s why I’m not telling you either.

She lights her cigarette off of the end of mine and starts talking.

“So in this book I’m reading there’s a scene where two characters are talking, and a group of others are listening. It’s like a salon or something. And one of them asks the other, ‘What are the three saddest words in the English language?’” she says.

She’s talking very fast. Too fast for this late into the night. There’s too much energy and excitement in this girl for a rainy October night. I imagine what it would be like to take her home. And then I imagine what it would be like to try to fall asleep afterwards while she chattered away into the dawn. I decide we would definitely be taking separate cabs home from this place.

“So the guy thinks for a while,” she says. “And then he replies, ‘I give up.’ It’s brilliant. At first everyone thinks he doesn’t know the answer. And then they realize that is his answer. It strikes them as profound. Surrender is the ultimate heart-break.”

I nod. I’m not sure now if she is trying to seduce me or trying to convince me to seduce her. Or just trying to tell me something I need to know about the world. I hope it’s not the last one. On nights like this I feel like I already know too much about the world.

“But then the guy who asks the question shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid you are wrong,’ he says. ‘The three saddest words are What If?’ What breaks our hearts the most, what keeps us up at night, are the things we never tried,” she says.

She’s right, of course. I discovered long ago that embarrassment usually passed with the hangover but regret over lost opportunities could last for years. Maybe a life time. It’s a lesson I don’t like to think about much because it reminds me of those lost opportunities all over again.

There’s no doubt now that she’s trying to seduce me. Who talks about lost opportunities to a stranger outside a bar at quarter to four in the morning unless they want to spend the night with them? I wonder what I can say back to her.

“That’s impossible,” I say. “What If is only two words. Those might be sad words but they aren’t the three saddest. You should burn that book and pretend you never read it.”

I flick my cigarette out into the middle of the wet avenue, turn my collar up against the rain and head off home for one of my last nights living in Manhattan.

Time for a Change

2006-09-13T10:01:00.000-04:00

I was temporarily without a home. MT offered me his. A newfound morality prevented him from sharing a temporary residence with a platonic female. As I pulled up, he threw me the key and took my seat. He mumbled to me as the car sped away. Something about detox or shacking up downtown.

I maneuvered my belongings through the revolving door on offer with just enough effort to temporarily trap a resident inside. The suited man sitting gave me a quizzical look, then a knowing nod as I strode past.

The elevator was as gilded as I remembered. I slid the key into the lock and remembered the dreams and aspirations that once brewed inside this place. The latch slipped, I took a breath and went inside.

The first step was familiar, but the rest was new. The estate seems to have born the brunt of MT’s new career status.

It had achieved a state of dilapidate grandeur. This was becoming on certain cheekbones, but the light of day was not something the abode should have seen. I pulled the curtains. MT had either called off or buried the maid. Things were looking suspicious. There was no Tivo.

This night called for a martini. I poured myself a gin on the rocks, minus rocks. The MT estate was officially in decline. It was time to depart.

SweetVicious was waiting nearby. It had been a long night at the office, she claimed. The bartenders were peddling free drinks. Someone helped me into a seat at the bar. I remembered there were times when being XY in New York was equal parts broken glass and wasted lust. This was not one of those times.

We traded conversation for some nods and a drink. Our seats were by the window to bring in new business. The bartenders spoke in Turkish. We let them. The night would end here if we weren’t careful.

Michael walked in wearing sunglasses. It was midnight. He was leaving for India in the morning and claimed this was acclimation for the new time zone. He always said that.

We walked toward the river. The bar was dark and smelled of other boroughs. Sam Malone and his woman saved us from the hordes. There was a cool breeze off the water, but it scared the owners. They liked it hot, even though no one else did. Sam cracked a window, which reminded us to go outside.

Phones were buzzing, but the last gasps of summer were making us dog obligation. It was fashion week and Truman was in the midst of 200 heroin addicts drinking champagne on Gaansevort. He said this as if it were a good thing. We deleted him. Again.
Someone called from above 14th street. Someone always does.

We found an outdoor garden and some of the last sweet drinks we would have this year. The wind played in the streets as people remembered why they like this place. Music called us. We danced in the bar without a cabaret license. No one seemed to mind. Out on the street, calls were made.

SV pulled over a ride. There were crowds and cobblestone. Someone handed me champagne.

We were on a roof. Drinks were thrown. We were made to leave. The teetering tentpoles were beginning to think they could hold up their part of the conversation. Someone offered up my new abode for a gathering. I was feeling hospitable.

Jimbo got there early and stopped to say hello to Bob on Sixth Avenue. He had purchased two cigars from Bob earlier in the night, and had returned to recount the evening. When we arrived they were just finishing up. Bob was using his old standard: “I won’t screw you over like those crazy crackwhores. Don’t get me wrong. I am a crackwhore... But I’m not crazy.”

This bum had spunk. We brought him back to the estate.

“Shit, I’m covered tonight. You don’t want me in your apartment.”

“Oh come off it, Bob.”

“It’s not our apartment.”
—Miss Anna

Thoughts on Patriotism With Beer and A Pretty Girl

2006-07-26T19:27:00.000-04:00

I unbuttoned another button on my shirt and blew some cool air down my neck. My chest was slick with sweat, and shined a bit under the street lamps on Orchard Street. Nothing felt like it was moving. The air was still. No one else was on the street. I imagined that even the rats I knew were just out of sight in the shadows were refusing to move in the July heat.

I tried to think about how things could be worse. I could be in Queens, where they haven’t even had electricity for eight days. Were people still even living in Queens? Or had they fled the borough for places with ice and air conditioning.

I turned off Ludlow and onto Rivington. From the east there was something close to wind. Only the breeze was warm. It stirred things up a bit but didn’t do much to cool things off.

They shut down my old bar this spring. It had been called the Cellar and had been my home away from home. And you can scratch that “away from home” bit. It had been my home straight-up while my actual apartment, the place I paid rent, was more like my home away from the bar. The usual crowd was always there, tilting back drinks and telling each other outrageous lies or courageous truths. I never cared which and never bothered to sort one out from the other. If it didn’t involve me handing someone my wallet or leaving my barstool, what business of mine was it whether the stories the drinkers at the Cellar told were true or just stories that ought to have been true. I liked the place so much I actually stopped keeping whiskey in my apartment just so I would always have an excuse to go down there.

So now I was on my way to a new bar. The new place had actually been around longer than the Cellar but it was new to me. I’m not particularly a fan of new things, and I dislike old things that are just new to me even more than than the genuinely new. The old ways and places are best. The only exception I know to this rule has to do with women. But let’s not get into all that just now.

I’m sorry to get all nostalgic about my old place. Especially when it doesn’t have much to do with what happened next. The Cellar doesn’t even come up in the conversation I was about to have with Hillary. But that’s how I was feeling while I walked across Rivington Street to meet her, and that’s about all I was feeling. Sad for myself and my bar. And unbelievably uncomfortable in the heat.

Even though nothing was right with the world, Hillary is the kind of girl who makes you forget that for a moment. Your see her and the world stops for a minute. No. That’s not right. It doesn’t stop. It just moves differently, seems to get on the right track again. If I were a dancing man, I might say that it finds the rhythm it had lost. But I’m not really sure what that’s like because I only dance to the slow songs.

Let me put it different. When you sit down on a barstool beside her, the things that shouldn’t happen don’t, and the things the shouldn’t have happened haven’t. I’m not sure I’d say that she makes anything that should happen actually happen. It’s more like standing athwart all of life’s little disasters and yelling stop.

She might be the perfect woman if she wasn’t so full of ideas. When she’s talking about music or clothes or what bastards men are or how come the bartender hasn’t bought us a free round yet, well, at those moments you start to think maybe you love her. But then she starts talking about ideas and things go all wrong.

At some point someone taught her economics, and with that came a few lessons about politics. Not practical economics—like how to save money or run a business. And not practical politics—like how to win elections. She learned about economic theories and political theories. Ideas, like I was saying. And they filled her head up and now sometimes—okay most times—its hard to have a talk with her about the world without your words bumping up against her ideas. They’re like a road block standing between the world and her mind.

Here’s where we hit the problem with ideas. At some point I mentioned something about how a friend of mine had started a little Mexican food place a couple of blocks away. They served great fish tacos that you can get coated with guacamole. They’re real cheap and they sell beer too. Hillary wanted to know why she hadn’t ever met the guy who owned the place. I told her how he had moved out of New York City when it became uncomfortable for him to keep living here on account of his opinions about immigration. She shifted a bit in her seat and I knew we were in trouble.

“What was he saying about immigration?” Hillary asked.

“He took the position that the immigration policy of the United States should, first and foremost, be decided on the basis of what was good for the citizens of the United States,” I said.

“Why should it be decided on such a narrow basis?” she said.

“Well, I’m not saying there aren’t other considerations. And neither was he. It’s just that it seems kind of self-evident that the job of the Untied States government should be to look out for its people first, to put their lives, liberties and interests before anyone elses,” I said.

“Not self-evident to me at all,” she said.

“Hillary. You’re not that dense. It’s called patriotism. It’s a pretty normal human way of looking at things.” I shouldn’t have used the word dense. She was getting agitated.

“I think there are plenty of practical reasons to be patriotic. Of course, nations should in many cases devote more resources to their own citizens than to foreigners, and therefore be more concentrated on the interest of those foreigners, because they are more familiar with them and less likely to make errors about how best to use those resources. But the kind of patriotism that thinks foreigners are ‘worth less’ than citizens or that the government should treat them as if they were worth less, is based on a falsehood,” she said.

I took the top off my pint of Six Points Sweet Action. “What do you mean it’s based on a falsehood?”

“It’s an error of moral arithmetic. The ‘worth less’ position is false and does not follow from the practical argument for patriotism,” she said. She was hardly drinking at all anymore, and she was talking about arithmetic and morals in the same sentence. Neither of those are good signs.

I should have let it go. Nodded my head and said something about not being very good at either arithmetic or morals anyway. Ordered us some shots of Wild Turkey. Let her smile return and set the world right. But she wouldn’t let me.

“Hillary, I’m curious about how you’re so certain you know what’s morally true about nations and people? I know you believe in individual liberty and I’m not arguing against that stuff now. But that’s a pretty strong statement, you’re making. I mean, if we all were to try to care for everyone equally on the basis of equal self-worth, wouldn’t that mean…”

“Stop,” she said. “I knew you’d go straight for that reductio ad absurdum. Let me turn this around and say that I think you need to make a positive argument for national borders as sources of moral delineation.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you what I think. First, I want to get off this abstract idea about whether people are ‘worth less.’ We’re not talking about arithmetic, or cash registers or God’s score board in the sky. We’re talking about how we treat people, and our duties toward others. So I’ll say that I do not agree that we have any duties to people from other countries that arise their being the equal members of a community composed of all the people in the world.

“And that’s because I’m not sure I can follow your assumption of a world wide moral community of people. So I’m not sure you are entitled to demand reasons for why we should carve that up into nations. From what I see, we’ve got a world of nations, for the most part. And for a long time, people in nations have generally preferred their own to foreigners. So the way I see it, this is the way things are whether you like it or not,” I said.

“You cannot prove an ‘ought’ from an ‘is.’ Just because that’s the way people act doesn’t mean that it’s right. In fact, these facts are irrelevant to the argument. You’re just showing that lots of people make the mistake in moral arithmetic I was talking about earlier,” she said.

“I don’t agree that it’s irrelevant. Let me put it this way. Suppose there were eighty people on a tiny island in the South Pacific, mostly tourists (and for our purposes, all women—perhaps the island is a terrible fishing destination, keeping away the men). And suppose there was a tsunami coming to sink the island. Forty of these folks are Americans, and forty of them are foreigners. If the US could get four helicopters to the island to rescue ten people each, I suppose you would have to say that we should be neutral about whether the helicopters rescued American women or foreigner women. (And now you see why I made them all women—so we wouldn’t get distracted by issues about women and children getting off before men.) But any normal American would say that the American helicopters should rescue the Americans. And if the copters were British or Chinese, the people of those countries would expect their nationals to be rescued first. Now why should this be, since there are not purely practical reasons involved here? I think it’s because we have a deep moral intuition about our people, and I think this moral intuition tells us that our people are not equally all people, but subsets of that larger group.”

“I know you probably still don’t like the idea of relying on habit, tradition or intuition but I’m afraid that’s a problem for your argument and not mine. In fact, I think I won the argument the moment you said that it was false to think that we shouldn’t treat our fellow citizens as if they were worth more than others. That is a losing position. If your philosophy says that nations are morally irrelevant, I’m afraid it is your philosophy that will have to go.

“This is my positive argument for the moral importance of nations, and for the morality of preferring citizens to foreigners—because I think my position coheres with the way we think about the world and ourselves, with what we know about the world, with the way we live and the way we want to live. And I don’t think the contrary position makes as much sense with any of these things.”

That’s it. I was done. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore but I could tell she did. There was a look on her face that I’ll call an emotional Manhattan—one part confused and two parts angry.

“Your position is almost nihilistic. No it is nihilistic. You aren’t offering reasons or arguments, you are offering up feelings, sentiments and popular opinion. You are denying the role of reason in moral arithmetic,” she said.

“Actually, I’m not. I mean, I'm borrowing some of my arguments--probably even my words--from guys like Richard Posner and Socrates, who have questionable relationships to morality. But I think it’s strange that you think I’m nihilistic for defending the all-but universal moral intuitions of the world’s peoples. I’m not even denying the role of reason, either. Not really. I’m saying that the kind of reason we use when we make moral arguments is different than the kind we use when we calculate interest rates. You keep using the phrase ‘moral arithmetic’ and I think that’s where you are going wrong. The problem with moral arguments is that we aren’t adding things up. It’s trickier than that. We have to take positions on a particular understanding of what it means to be human, what kind of world we live in, and what kind of human good our public life should be concerned with.”

“So, then,” she said. “Out with it. What’s your underlying position?”

“I guess my position is that being human means being human together. Social animals and all that. And that being together means being together with particular people, not all people and not people in the abstract. I guess there are concentric circles of togetherness, and I think each one probably has moral significance. Practical significance too, but moral also.”

“Oh, MT,” she said. “You are a wonderful drinking companion. You might even be the perfect man if you’d slow down with the whiskey. And if you didn’t have so many ideas in your head.”

Banking, Strippers and Foreign Types

2006-07-25T17:09:00.000-04:00

As is usually the case, last week was a bad week not to be an American. It is still difficult to find a good job in journalism, investment banking or lawyering in much of the developing world, leaving us to ask what exactly they are developing in their world. Other than new strains of long forgotten diseases of the lower intestine.

Both the Senate and the White House seem to have dropped their attempt to open our border with Mexico even further, so life probably got a little bit more uncomfortable if you are one of the millions of people who want to be an American but are not yet for the simple reason that you broke the law to live here. As if who is and who is not an American should be decided by law rather than the more practical and equitable arrangement of deciding who is an American according to who lives in the poorest country closest to an unprotected American border.

But it wasn’t only foreigners who are not Americans but would like to be who suffered last week. Other suffering foreigners included the three British bankers who never wanted to come back to America at all but now find they may never be allowed to leave. The Nat West 3--those three British bankers accused of once having something or another to do with Enron--were extradited to the US to stand trial for the sins of Texas. And then promptly informed by a judge that they will have to wait out their trial in Texas or some other part of America, which the bankers described as psychological torture, immediately endearing them to their new neighbors.

Actually, by saying they were charged with "something or another" I'm afraid I may have given the mistaken impression that I do not know precisely what the NatWest 3 are charged with doing. This would put me in the company of everyone else in the world. But I am in the unique position of knowing and understanding exactly what the charges are. They are precisely this: consorting with strippers and other Texans while engaged in investment banking.

When Good Economists Go Bad

2006-05-18T16:48:00.000-04:00

We've got to come up with a simple term describing an economist whose brain shuts down when he thinks about immigration. Tyler Cowen of Marginal Revolution is currently the leading example. He's very smart about a lot of stuff but he when he starts trying to think about immigration, he seems to get stuck in some sort of ideological rut. Every data point that seems to support massively increasing immigration strikes him as very important and every contra-indicator, well, I'm not sure he's able to see them at all.

Steve Sailer has done a good job at pointing out how Cowen's getting whacked by readers in the comments to his own blog, so I'll won't into the details here. Instead, let me point out that Cowen's most recent post points to Bryan Kaplan's EconLog post arguing that being around a lot of immigrants makes people less worried about immigration. Or as he puts it: "Direct observation of immigrants leads to more reasonable beliefs about the effects of immigration."

More reasonable, huh? Well, that's a question begging restatement of the issue if I ever heard one. But that's not my point.

Kaplan's also getting whacked by readers. A poster called "Teller" has pointed out that if you control for income, the significance of immigration vanishes all together. "The average state income is however significantly correlated people with being positive towards immigration," Teller writes. This is exactly what you would suspect since the poor feel the costs of immigration much more the those on the upper end of the income scale.

Another problem with Kaplan's contention is that it fails to take into account the fact that people move, and (not insignificantly) people move out of areas experiencing large influxes of immigration. Economics call this the "immigration push" effect. A lot of people who live in areas with few immigrants live there because they've moved away from areas with lots of immigrants. So it's not as simple as where people live determining their opinions about immigration; people's opinions about immigration also determine where they live.

Here's more on the immigration push effect.

MT Gets Results

2006-05-16T19:04:00.000-04:00

Last night, before the president's speech, I printed an email from a reader outraged at the dishonesty of calling the folks Bush so badly wants to let into America "temporary guest workers" when they are nothing of the sort. It concluded "Calling these folks 'guests' is perhaps the most insulting part of this mess."

A few hours later, Bush gave his speech with nary a mention of "guests." Maybe someone in the Bush speech writing team is reading MT.

I'll have more on the substance of the speech later. For now check out Steve Sailer's round-up of reactions from around the blogosphere.

Reader Calls Bullshit on 'Temporary Guest Workers'

2006-05-15T16:40:00.000-04:00

I'm getting a lot of email today from folks upset about what Bush might say tonight. Here's one:

How can you tell if a politician is lying? If he uses the phrase "temporary guest worker" to describe the people who will be let in my the Senate immigration bill. No matter how many times the phrase "temporary guest-worker" is repeated, the truth is that most of the workers will be neither temporary nor guests. And they don't have to be workers either.

As this Heritage Foundation reports makes clear, most workers classified as "temporary" would be given convertible status allowing them to become legal permanent residents. Here's how it works. A worker gets recruited to come to the US and is initially given a six-year stint here. In his fourth year, however, he is eligible to become a permanent resident if he can show that he has learned English or is enrolled in an English class. That's right, he gets permanent status just for being enrolled in the class. So scratch out any notion that these are "temporary" workers.

It gets worse. The spouses and children of a "guest worker" are also permitted to enter the US, and are eligible to become permanent residents when the "guest worker" does. There's no work requirement for the spouses or children, of course, so you can scratch "worker" off too.

And while you are at it, scratch out any notion that we are going to be able to somehow control the number of people coming in under this program. Heritage estimates that at least 100 million legal immigrants will enter the US under this program. That's 84 million than would be permitted under the current laws. But Heritage admits the number might be twice as much.

Guess what? They're low-balling it. The number may be even greater. For all practical purposes, there is an unlimited number of people in the world willing to come to the US in search of a better job. A recent Pew survey found 40% of Mexico want to come here, and Mexico is far from being the poorest country in the world. As the immigrant population grows, so will the pressure on politicians to give in to their demands. As we saw two weeks ago, one of the primary political demands of our immigrant population seems to be amnesty for those here illegally and allowing even more immigrants.

But let's say that this provision gets revised to eliminate the ability of the Temps to convert to Perms. What then? Everyone admits that we aren't going to deport the millions of illegals already in place under current laws. If the Temps decide to overstay their welcome, does anyone seriously expect that we will suddenly find the political will and the practical means of deporting the millions we would have let in under the new immigration regime? Won't we be faced with mass street demonstrations? Won't our economy be even more dependent upon cheap foreign labor? Are we suddenly going to lose our compassion for the people who are 'doing jobs Americans won't do?'

There's also the problem of so-called 'anchor babies.' Almost uniquely among western nations, the US grants citizenship to all children born here regardless of whether their parents are citizens, temporary workers or illegal aliens. As the example of Europe shows, we don't have to do this. But under a recent Supreme Court decision, this is the law of the land. As hard as it is to send childless illegals back home, it is nearly impossible to deport illegals who are raising their American citizen babies.

How many times can we scratch our "temporary"?

Calling these folks "guests" is perhaps the most insulting part of this mess. Guests are invited by hosts, and hosts are responsible for the actions of their guests. So will the companies that invite foreigners to work in the US be responsible for their guests who turn to welfare or crime? Of course not. These are a very odd kind of guests, the kind invited to stay here by someone else at our expense. So, yeah, scratch guests off next.

American Carpenter Objects to Amnesty

2006-05-15T00:31:00.000-04:00

Watch the whole thing.

Teeter Sperber

2006-05-02T02:06:00.000-04:00

This is a picture of my friend Teeter Sperber. She used to run Williamsburg but now she lives out on the Oregon coast. In April, Teeter came into town for a few weeks. Everyone got together at Black & White to welcome her to town. I met her two rad sisters who do things like make handbags and play in rock bands. It was fun. That is all.

Oh. Wait. No it's not. In March, Teeter decamped Oregon for Florida, where she produced the Spring Break Hellscape blog. If you want to follow along with the story, though, you have to read it from the start.

Dennis Duggan, RIP

2006-04-21T12:25:00.000-04:00

Remembering Dennis.

Newsday Obit.

Times Obit.

More later.

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me

2006-04-17T17:52:00.000-04:00

Let others deal with the great issues of the day. My favorite article from the Sunday Times dealt with people watching videos of people watching videos.

Manhattan Transfer: Live Edition. Save The Date

2006-04-13T15:03:00.000-04:00

It looks like I'm going to be debating immigration at Lolita on Wednesday, May 3rd. These things usually kick-off around 8 PM. The words are free but the drinks aren't. However, they have a good happy hour special before the debate, so you can expect me to be well into my cups before the debate gets going. Bring everyone.

A Quick Question on "Guest Workers?"

2006-04-13T12:29:00.000-04:00

One of the proposals that I keep hearing mentioned in the immigration debate is initiating a "guest worker" program. Foreigners who can secure jobs in the U.S. would be allowed to enter and stay for as long as they keep those jobs.

So what happens if they lose their job or quit? Well, presumably they won't get packed on a plane bound for their homeland later that afternoon. That would create a huge, irrational inflexibility in the labor market. First, employers could abuse employees who couldn't quit without being deported. Second, it doesn't make much sense to require employers to hire foreign workers from abroad if we have some jobless foreign workers here. It makes far more sense to give some time period for the guest workers to secure another job.

But what if they don't? Right now we are constantly told that it is impossible and inhumane to remove the illegal aliens who are currently here. After the "get a new job" period elapsed, the unemployed guest worker would be obligated to go home and if he stayed, then he becomes an illegal alien. But we already know that it is supposedly impossible/inhumane to remove illegals, so aren't we going to be stuck with every single guest worker who enters the country, regardless of his employment status?

So here's my question: has anyone proposing a guest worker program outlined the procedures for removing guests who have overstayed their welcome?

Chopping Up The Girls

2006-04-11T12:15:00.000-04:00

It's visual culture day on the interwebs. More specifically, today a couple of my favorite blogs today are discussing how our visual media depict women. This stuff is intensely boring when done by party-line feminists because you always know the conclusion: it's about the oppression of women. When taken on by someone with broader interests, however, it can provide an occassion for good cultural criticism.

Let's start with Michael Blowhard, of Two Blowhards. Michael takes notice of the fact that so many of the book jackets of literary fiction feature the same tone--a sort of icy, vague intensity evocative of almost no specific emotions--as well as the same subject matters--bits of women displayed in a very nonsexual manner. These books are not chick-lit but their smarter, older sister. These are books that intelligent women, and most likely some intelligent men, are buying, and something in the tone and subject matter is meant to reflect these readers self-images. In other words, these book jackets somehow evoke a connection to intelligence in the minds of certain readers.

How does this work? I think the tone conveys something along the lines of longing. Where standard-fare chick-lit books convey the sense of wanting in a materialist sense--wanting sex, shoes, the perfect job--these seem to convey a deeper kind of desire. It's almost a philosophical desire, an awareness of the incompleteness of life. Something along the lines of Aristophanes idea (in Plato's Symposium) that life is mostly a longing to recover a lost wholeness. This is why the subject matter is so consistent. Images of incomplete women tell the readers the same thing.

Why do smart women feel that life is incomplete? I'll leave that discussion for another time and move on to Ross Douthat's thoughts on the new Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn film, The Break-Up. Ross looks at the transformation of Aniston from a pretty "Friends" girl with soft edges to the new, angular and shaved version we see in movies. Now part of this is no doubt simply that Aniston is getting older and very often what works for young ladies no longer works in later years. One tried-and-true method of combatting such decline is the Courgar-it-up like Sharon Stone or Demi Moore. But Ross takes things a step further than this.

"So this is where we are today - so jaded about nudity and sexuality, and so caught up in sexual competition, that we aren't just vain and/or insecure about our bodies generally, but about how alluring our reproductive organs look," Ross writes. In the course of the discussion he notices how this once again vindicates Tom Wolfe as our premier social observer. As they say, read the whole thing.

In a sense, though, Douthat's woman seems the opposite of the women of literary fiction. The latter is Incomplete, and the Former is Modified with an eye to completeness. The smarter version takes the acceptance of incompleteness as a sign of intelligence; the popular version takes strategic overcoming of incompleteness as a sign of intelligence.

If you want a good counter-point to either the Incomplete Women or the Modified Woman , you should check out Vice Magazine's Dos and Donts. The Vice guys tend to celebrate another type of woman altogether. I'm not exactly sure how to characterize this version yet, so I'll invite readers to leave comments. But she certainly strikes me as a very different type than the others.

Spring Break: Gawker Style

2006-03-28T13:00:00.000-05:00

Andrew Krucoff and I hang out with the NYU kids so you don't have to.

Help Wanted

2006-03-15T12:59:00.000-05:00

I'm involved in an exciting new internet/blogging venture that is going to need the assistance someone proficient at building websites. If you think you've got the skills, please send an email describing your experience and training to ManhattanTransfer(at)gmail(dot)com. Thanks.

The Genetic Geography of Thought

2006-03-13T12:13:00.000-05:00

The New York Times ran an important article by Nicholas Wade Sunday describing recent work in genetics suggesting that recent evolutionary changes can help explain cultural differences.

EAST ASIAN and European cultures have long been very different, Richard E. Nisbett argued in his recent book "The Geography of Thought." East Asians tend to be more interdependent than the individualists of the West, which he attributed to the social constraints and central control handed down as part of the rice-farming techniques Asians have practiced for thousands of years.

A separate explanation for such long-lasting character traits may be emerging from the human genome. Humans have continued to evolve throughout prehistory and perhaps to the present day, according to a new analysis of the genome reported last week by Jonathan Pritchard, a population geneticist at the University of Chicago. So human nature may have evolved as well.

If so, scientists and historians say, a fresh look at history may be in order. Evolutionary changes in the genome could help explain cultural traits that last over many generations as societies adapted to different local pressures.

Trying to explain cultural traits is, of course, a sensitive issue. The descriptions of national character common in the works of 19th-century historians were based on little more than prejudice. Together with unfounded notions of racial superiority they lent support to disastrous policies.

But like phrenology, a wrong idea that held a basic truth (the brain's functions are indeed localized), the concept of national character could turn out to be not entirely baseless, at least when applied to societies shaped by specific evolutionary pressures.

In a study of East Asians, Europeans and Africans, Dr. Pritchard and his colleagues found 700 regions of the genome where genes appear to have been reshaped by natural selection in recent times. In East Asians, the average date of these selection events is 6,600 years ago.

Many of the reshaped genes are involved in taste, smell or digestion, suggesting that East Asians experienced some wrenching change in diet. Since the genetic changes occurred around the time that rice farming took hold, they may mark people's adaptation to a historical event, the beginning of the Neolithic revolution as societies switched from wild to cultivated foods.

Some of the genes are active in the brain and, although their role is not known, may have affected behavior. So perhaps the brain gene changes seen by Dr. Pritchard in East Asians have some connection with the psychological traits described by Dr. Nisbett.

Some geneticists believe the variations they are seeing in the human genome are so recent that they may help explain historical processes. "Since it looks like there has been significant evolutionary change over historical time, we're going to have to rewrite every history book ever written," said Gregory Cochran, a population geneticist at the University of Utah. "The distribution of genes influencing relevant psychological traits must have been different in Rome than it is today," he added. "The past is not just another country but an entirely different kind of people.

Of course, if you are reading Steve Sailer regularly (and you should be), you probably tore through Sunday’s Times searching for the article (he announced it last week). And if you are a really close student of Sailerology, you knew that Greg Cochran would be mentioned in the article. When Sailer says that an important science article is about to be published that is usually code for something having to do with Cochran.

Come to think of it, if you were reading Manhattan Transfer a year ago, you probably are familiar with the subjects discussed in Wade’s article. Back in January of 2005, I wrote about Robert Nisbett’s “Geography of Thought” and speculated that Nisbett was possibly under-estimating the role of genetics in creating the cultural differences he notices. Nisbett pretty much dismisses the notion that genetics could have anything to do with the differences he describes. It seemed to me then that Nisbett’s favored explanation—that agricultural had led to different types of social organization which in turn led to different ways of thinking—didn’t need to exclude possible genetic differences. Given enough time, I would expect that, for instance, rice farming and the resulting cooperative/collective social organization of China would select for those with the genes that made it easier to adapt to such an environment. In the comments to that post, Greg Cochran pointed out that we already had a good candidate for a gene selected in this way.

Of course, the science on this is relatively new. Some still doubt that there has been “enough time” to lead to these changes (although recent discoveries are making this position harder and harder to defend). I suspect that over the next decade or so the science of the genetic geography of thought is going to get a lot of attention, in part because there is still so much left to do in this area. If I were a young population geneticist this is where I would be focusing my attention. If I were a young political scientist, for that matter, I’d enroll in a course in basic genetics. (Actually, it may make sense for someone to start offering a “genetics for social scientists” course somewhere, if they are not already.)

A few years ago, when I first picked up Paul Johnson’s excellent “Art: A New History” I remember thinking how unfortunate it was that he began the first chapter of the opening sentence by writing, “The human personality has been in existence for about 200,000 years, when Homo sapiens first evolved.” Even then I wasn’t sure it made sense to talk about “the human personality” rather than “human personalities geographically distributed” or to claim that anything like a “human personality” had been constant for the past 200,000 years. It reminded me of something you might read from a pre-Darwin British naturalist of the rational-Christian type. In fairness to Johnson, he was thinking about art when he wrote that sentence, not our genetic history. Nonetheless, the time may be coming when even those thinking about art will hesitate before they can assume the psychic unity and constancy of humanity.

The Only Difference Was the Clothes?

2006-03-07T11:28:00.000-05:00

Caralee Schmitt, who attended the event with her husband, marveled at the cowboy couture on display Sunday, which she had never seen growing up in Bozeman, Mont.

"My father was a cowboy, but not at all like these kind of cowboys," said Schmitt, who lives in South San Francisco.

[via Steve Sailer]

Did Brokeback Lose Because Hollywood Hates Gays? Or Maybe Because It Fears That America Hates Gays? Or Maybe...

2006-03-06T15:17:00.000-05:00

I watched the Oscars with team Teen Drama last night, chasing down pigs-in-blankets (provided by host DP Styles--mmm, thanks), barbequed antelope and bacon wrapped duck (provided by our resident game slayer, Southern Gent--double mmm) with three or four bottle of Anchor Steam Ale (do I even need to tell you that I brought the alcohol?). A New York City newspaper had asked me to write about the Oscars for a “second day” analysis piece, and I spent most of the night hoping someone would do something crazy so that I would have something to analyze. And I hoped they’d do it late enough to miss the deadline for Monday’s papers so my take would still be fresh on Tuesday morning. As you know nothing noteworthy happened, and this morning my editor and I agreed to kill the piece.

My favorite moment was when host Jon Stewart poked fun at Hollywood’s elitism at the Oscars Sunday night by turning to a giant Oscar statue looming over the stage and asking: "Do you think if we pulled this down, democracy would flourish in Hollywood?" No doubt he was alluding to famous image of Iraqi’s and American soldiers toppling the statue of Saddam Hussein a few years ago. He couldn’t have known that his remarks would turn out to be a prediction of the night’s final award, with underdog Crash toppling elite favorite Brokeback Mountain for Best Picture.

Hollywood’s elite wanted the Oscars to break new ground by awarding its top prize to the gay-themed Brokeback Mountain. If celebrating Brokeback made Hollywood seem out of touch with much of America, all the better. Much of the Hollywood elite imagines itself as iconoclastically progressive, shattering American icons such as cowboys and pressing for civil rights against recalcitrant American bigotry.

That probably sounds a little bit like a reactionary rant. But don’t take my word for it. Take theirs.

Here’s Best Supporting Actor winner George Clooney:

I would say that, you know, we are a little bit out of touch in Hollywood every once in a while. I think it's probably a good thing. We're the ones who talk about AIDS when it was just being whispered, and we talked about civil rights when it wasn't really popular. And we, you know, we bring up subjects."

And here is “Crash” producing Paul Haggis:

Bertolt Brecht said that art is not a mirror to hold up to society but a hammer in which to shape it, and so I guess this is ours.'

As soon as they announced the win by Crash, I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone started complaining that the loss by the gay-themed Brokeback Mountain demonstrates a lingering anti-gay prejudice in Hollywood. Sure enough, Los Angels Times critic Keneth Turan blamed “unspoken fears” and “unconscious prejudices” for thwarting “Brokeback Mountain” reach for the top prize. Reuters’s Arthur Spiegelman complained that Hollywood had shut “the closet door” on gay-themed films . There’s more of the same from Nikki Finke. Didn’t Mickey Kaus predict exactly this reaction to Brokeback’s loss?

I did a quick dash over to Kausfiles to see if he was gloating, which he was. But he was kind enough to offer the proponents of the “fear” hypothesis a slightly more plausible alternative explanation.

If the problem is really that Academy members let their fears win out over their better judgment--which I don't buy--isn't it more likely that the fears were not the Academy members own unspoken homophobic fears but fears of what their audience would think if they gave first prize to Brokeback? ... Fear of the audience--specifically, fear that the mainstream American audience will conclude you are a bunch of out-of-touch coastal liberal elitists--may in fact be the most pervasive fear in all of media.”

What makes even this alternative unlikely is that the director of the supposedly fear-inducing gay-themed film was awarded the Best Director prize and Phillip Seymour Hoffman garnered the Best Actor award portraying a famous homosexual. Is this how an Academy afraid of an anti-gay blacklash would behave? How can this be shutting the door on gay-themes?

Before conservative pundits start championing Brokeback’s loss as a victory for their side, they might want to note that Best Picture winner “Crash” is also a “topical” film centered on a cherished liberal obsession—American racism. Indeed, many critics praised the film for undermining racial stereotypes. (Although this might be a misinterpretation—Steve Sailer has argued that the film actually demonstrates how accurate those stereotypes can be.)

It seems to me that the most likely reason Crash won over Brokeback is that it has a far more appealing storyline. People would rather watch the story of a racist Irish cop heroically redeemed by rescuing a black woman than what one of my friends described as a “long, ponderous, gay march toward death.” If Crash is Homer’s Odyssey set in L.A., then Brokeback is Aeschylus’s Agamemnon. And when was the last time anyone staged Agamemnon?

(Update: Okay, okay. Stop with the emails. On reflection the reference to Homer and Aeschylus gives both movies too much credit. I only included the classical works to illustrate what different kind of stories they are, and that Crash's story is in some ways the more familiar kind. Crash does have serious problems. It is psychologically manipulative and it is topical--which is to say it seems to have a message but it really doesn't. It has topics--race and crime--but doesn't quite know what to do with them. This happens with a lot of contemporary films. They come close to having a message and then slink away from them.)

What’s more, I suspect that the “topics” involved in Crash—race, crime, prejudice—intersect with people’s lives far more than the topics—homosexuality and homophobia—raised in Brokeback. Even progressives who favor gay marriage and such things might connect more with Crash. Also, setting Crash in LA rather than in Brokeback’s rural west probably didn’t hurt.

Is it too cynical to suspect that one of the best ways to win an Oscar is to cast a lot of actors in your film? After all, a lot of actors are Academy voters and so creating a film with a large ensemble cast probably marginally increases your chances of winning.

None of which means that either film is any good. In fact, 2005 seems to have been a spectacularly bad year for big movies. Most people I talked with disliked both Brokeback and Crash. But that’s the problem with an annual award show—they have to give out the awards every year. And if it’s a year of stinkers, well, I guess they end up holding their nose while they vote for the winners.

So maybe Crash’s win didn’t exactly topple the power of the elite Hollywood Sunday night. But those who wanted the Oscars to be a celebration of the politics of Brokeback were dealt a rebuke by Academy voters not yet accustomed to following the orders commanding them to vote for this year’s pet cause. And to me, every little sign of resistance against settling in the mould of homogenous opinion is a reason to smile.

Live Blogging the First Couple of Seconds of the Oscars

2006-03-05T20:10:00.000-05:00

They put poor little Keira Knightly next to Jack Nicholson! That's just wrong.

Last Nights

2006-02-28T16:27:00.000-05:00

The Cellar is closing forever on Wednesday. Forever ever. It's a long story that I don't understand but it ends with the best bar in New York City closing down.

I used to say, "You can take my job, take my girl, but you can't take the night from me." And now they sort of have taken the night from me. Or at least a little part of it. A big part of it. Anyway, if you're looking, you'll know where to find me for the next two days.

Actually, that's not quite right. From seven until 11 or so on Wednesday night I'll be in Lolita Bar, on Broome and Allen. Southern Gent is debating gun control with some one else. My friend Bern is the moderator. The debate kicks off at eight. Attendance is mandatory.

Old Bloggers Never Die

2006-02-21T17:10:00.000-05:00

They just fade away.

I haven't been to the gym since New Year's. I was running a bit during that "Spring In Winter" stretch we went through before the blizzard.

For some reason, I'm vanishing. Sometime in January I stepped on the scale and weighed in at 175 pounds.

This morning I'm 164.

I've completely lost my appetite. When I eat these days it is only for social reasons.

So, starting first thing tomorrow morning, I'm going back to the gym to see if I can recover my appetite and stop the incredible shrinking of Manhattan Transfer.

He Who Watches Us From Above

2006-02-06T16:47:00.000-05:00

How long has his secret headquarters been here?

Now More Just A Term For The Magician on Thursday Nights

2006-02-06T16:43:00.000-05:00

The Blog Cruise. [via Lindsayism]

My Girlfriend Left Me For A Dishwasher

2006-02-02T15:43:00.000-05:00

Interior. Manhattan Transfer sits in his bedroom surrounded by gigantic dustballs. There is no bed. The phone rings. He hesistates to answer. Then picks up.

MT: Hey, baby. How's it going in your new place?

GF: Oh. It's great. You'll be so jealous I have a dishwashing machine.

MT: And our bed. This place looks huge without it.

GF: I'm sure. Hey, do you mind coming by and sitting around my new place and waiting for the cable guy to come on Tuesday. I've got to work, and it's not like you're doing anything.

MT: You want me to come by the place you left me for so that you can have cable more quickly?

GF: Mmm-hmmm. Is that okay?

MT: I guess so. I can nap in a bed for a bit. And maybe I'll bring my dishes over to give the machine a test.

Cold Heart for a Warm Winter

2006-02-02T15:20:00.000-05:00

I apologize for all the silence around here lately. Although the weatherman says that this is one of the warmest winters in history, it's been a dark cold season for Manhattan Transfer. I've lost a lot. Including my job. (Hire me!). The girlfriend left me. (No. I'm not going to provide a link for "Date me!") There are rumors that the best bar in NYC is shutting down. (Buy me drinks!) I'm drinking more than a person with no income has any business drinking.

Winters have always been a bad season for Manhattan Transfer. Last year's heartbreaks and headaches led to this post:

A winter night in early March. The wind shakes the glass of the shops on Franklin Street. The cobra-headed street lights make little cones of cold yellow light in the darkness. You walk west into the wind toward Broadway, and turn right up a short flight of uneven steps at a place where the columns of an old Tribeca textile building are wrapped in white Christmas lights.

Inside is a long tall room with a bar on the left. J.J. behind the bar sees you come in and reaches for the bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey. The place is called Grace. You’ve been here before. You used to be a regular but something changed. A new crowd ran in newer bars and you stopped coming to Grace. Even you are surprised you are back in Grace again.

You push aside one of the tall stools in front of the bar, and lean up against the bar on your elbow. J.J. puts the glass in front of you. Two ice-cubes float in the amber whiskey. You watch them melt for a moment before you take a hit. The water cuts the alcohol a bit and lets the flavors of the whiskey flourish. The small portion of ice makes the drink cool but not cold. After your first drink you lick your lips and smile at the taste of whiskey. The muscles in your neck loosen and your eyes relax.

“Been awhile,” J.J. says as he shifts around some glasses beneath the bar.

“Yeah. Awhile. I didn’t know I was coming here,” you say. “I had other plans. But I found myself in the neighborhood and then in front of the bar.”

This was true. You had other plans for the night. Those were gone now.

You try to remember the last time you were here. It was in November. You were alone. You were alone a lot last November. A good friend had died. Another friend had given up the drink. Your brothers had all moved away.

Of course, there had been trouble with a girl. You know the moment the trouble started. It was just before dessert in a restaurant in Chicago where you and girl had gone for a weekend. She stopped talking, and put her fork down. This wasn’t what she wanted. When she said “this” she meant everything that had to do with you. She meant she wanted to leave you. You were to tell your mother not to expect her for the holidays.

Thinking about it now you realize that the trouble hadn’t started then. It had its start in a hundred smaller conversations that were tucked into everyday the rhythm of life. This one stood out because it was a disruption in the rhythm. The conversation that stopped everything else. You imagined it as a doorway in time which would forever divide what had come before you crossed the threshold and what had come after.

Afterwards, it was easy not to think about the girl and the dinner and the doorway during the day. Why was it so hard to avoid looking back through that doorway at night? You spent your nights pretending not to look but the only way you could stop yourself was with whiskey. So you drank too much.

You are drinking again tonight. Trying not to think about how cold it was outside. Somehow you had managed in a few short months to march yourself down another corridor that led directly toward another doorway, through which you had stepped tonight. Another conversation that brought stillness to life. Another mark between before and after. Another tearl in her eyes. Another goodbye.

J.J. hands you another whiskey. How many has that been? You’ve already lost count. You take a pen out of your pocket and start to write on a bar napkin. What you write is meant to be a joke, a twelve step program for people who seem to be addicted to broken hearts. But you can’t laugh at it tonight. You hope tomorrow it will be funny. Tonight you just wish you could cry but that’s the other part, that you cannot even, ever cry.

The whiskey helps though. It really does.

[About a year ago on Manhattan Transfer I wrote How To Preserve Your Heart. After that the blog went silent for ten days.]

Which was just a retelling of the story of the events which led to "How to Repair Your Heart: A 12-Step Program."

1. Your heart has been torn out but you cannot just shove it in the freezer where you're keeping your liver for a day when you be more responsible with it.

2. The heart is a delicate organ. Without proper measures it is prone to freezer burn, which can lead to hardness, cracking and breaking.

3. Preservation requires marinating in whiskey for several hours.

4. This will also help sterilize the areas around the heart, including and up to your mind.

5. Never throw out the old ice. The second glass of whiskey should be poured over the remains of the first. The third over the second. The fourth over the third. The fifth over the fourth. The sixth over the rest of month, until it stops hurting so goddamn much.

6. Avoid the temptation to take your heart out and examine it. It will look blackened, dead and broken. This will make you panic. Ignore your heart. Forget it. Eventually it will work again, providing you keep it in a cold, dark place for long enough.

7. Have I mentioned cocaine? No? Good. Stay away from coke while you've removed your heart. It is no good for the heartless.

8. Speed, diet pills and kgb pills are even worse. You need to feel down, hungover, dead while you try to preserve your heart. That pain in your head and where your heart used to be means you are still alive and might survive this.

9. ~~Forgive and forget~~. Fuck that. You really aren't going to forgive or forget, so why pretend? You feel empty because you've lost something important. You're drunk, and a bile producing organ has filled the void where your heart used to be. Hate, hate, hate. You're going to anyway. Might as well turn your faults into principles.

10. Get a job or ~~a hobby~~. Never mind the hobby bullshit. You're not going to like anything for a long time, especially not knitting or rescuing plastic bags from urban trees. Jobs are good because they suck. They give your hatred an object. (Hint: Try to avoid wondering whether things would have worked out better if you'd had a better job--of course they would have, but thinking about this will make you postal.)

11. Back to drugs. Remember when you were stupid enough to believe you and your friends wouldn't get completely fucked by your chemical dependencies? Well, it's time to return to the faith. Nothing will get you through this like good drugs, great nights and awful days.

12. There is no step twelve. I'm sorry. You're basically fucked. You cannot preserve your heart. It's broken, it's been cut out and you can try to freeze it but it's not going to work. I was only trying to make you feel better when I said it would work again. Look. You're a drunk, you've spent money you don't have on drugs you cannot afford and you've got a bad attitude at work. Welcome to the world--we've been expecting you.

[Dealing With Life After Dumpage--Maccers]

[Choire Sicha's Non-Expert on Broken Hearts--The Morning News]

We'll keep on keeping on over here at MT. You can take my job, take my girl, take my bar but you cannot take the night from me. Or the blog. More soon.

But Then They Don't Like Me Much Either

2006-02-01T14:59:00.000-05:00

I know it's a blogger cliche to link to your google search hits but I'm just getting back into the swing of things.

It's nice to be the number two hit for this search.

Aint to Proud To Bleg

2006-02-01T14:44:00.000-05:00

For a project that I'm starting tomorrow, I'm going to need to review the best NYC blogs looking for good stories about life in our fair city. If you have a couple of favorites that aren't on my blogroll (including your own) please leave the url in my comments or email it to me.

Intelligent Design Debate Tonight

2006-01-04T12:01:00.000-05:00

When I first heard the words "intelligent design" I was hoping someone had made a big breakthrough in houseware utility. I'm a complete sucker for well designed appliances and cookware. I own a fancy coffee maker and an ergonomic tea kettle. But I still believe that there is a lot of important work to be done in this field.

Unfortunately, Intelligent Design refers to something else entirely. It refers to the claim that the certain irreducibly complex elements found in living organisms imply design rather than randomness. To put it simply, we're made up of stuff so complex that we have reason to suspect someone set us up this way and that we're not just the product of random biological mutations interacting with a changing environment.

Is this true? Frankly, it seems plausible but the evidence and counter-evidence for it involves mathematics and biology that are beyond my understanding. On so many matters in life we have to trust what the experts say because ordinary citizens cannot be practically become informed enough to make sound judgments. The public is, I guess, irreducibly ignorant.

But over the years we've learned that the experts can be tragically wrong. We need to be particularly cautious when experts start making claims that go beyond assertions of their own particular field and enter into the realm of policy. A bit more skepticism about expertise would have saved many neighborhoods from destruction at the hands of urban planners, for instance.

On Intelligent Design, the experts are telling us that it is not science and cannot be taught in our public schools. They have persuaded at least one federal judge to enforce this argument. I'm not sure, however, that an expert in evolutionary biology is necessarily qualified to know what should be taught in school. It seems to me we should be particularly cautious when experts attempt to expunge a newly formulated field of inquiry from the earliest stages of education. Would we have wanted medieval scientists to ban the teaching of Newtonian physics?

Furthermore, I am sure that federal judges are in no better place than local school boards to make critical judgments about what is and isn't good science. Just to be clear, I'm not sure the local school boards are very good at this either. I'm even confident that what motivates many of them to include Intelligent Design is an attachment to a kind of Christian fundamentalism for which I am less than an enthusiast. But none of the usual arguments for centralized decision making even apply here, so I don't see why we should abandon school boards as the venue for these decisions.

The debate over evolution strikes me as completely askew. Secular liberals suspect ID is really a plot by fundamentalist Christians to smuggle their beliefs into the public schools. (That they are largely correct, however, is entirely besides the point--in a free society, people wouldn't have to "smuggle" their beliefs into the public schools at all, they could lay them right out in the open.) These same liberals, however, deny with a religious fervor any of the quite probable implications for evolution's continued influence on human behavior and intelligence. Meanwhile, many Christians suspect that Darwinian evolution is being taught to their children in an attempt to make their children more secular and less religious. (This is probably true too!). It seems to me that the way to decide issues that have become this divisive is to devolve the decision making down to the most local level.

Anyway, these are just some quick notes I've jotted down in anticipation of tonight's event. At eight o'clock I'll be debating in favor of the right of school boards to include Intelligent Design in their curriculum. It's at Lolita Bar on the corner of Allen and Broome. Jinx magazine is the sponsor. Please come by.

Merry Christmas

2005-12-23T12:19:00.000-05:00

There won't be much posting around here until after Christmas. If this saddens you, you are spending way to much time on the interwebs. It's Christmas--go celebrate with friends and family. Or at least go get drunk.

The Manhattan Transfer Doll

2005-12-20T11:55:00.000-05:00

Someone emailed me this picture earlier. Not a bad likeness, especially if you imagine that the doll mumbles reactionary politics when you pull the string on his back and smells like whiskey.

Doll Maker

Gnome in Chief

2005-12-19T09:58:00.000-05:00

Close observers of president George Bush are saying that last night's Oval Office speech marked a major shift in the way the administration is talking about Iraq. But then I am not a closer observer of the president, and neither are you; so we won't dwell on that. To us, it sounded pretty much the same. Which is to say, it still sounds like the Underpants Gnomes are running our Iraq policy.

You remember the Underpants Gnomes, right? They were a community of gnmoes who steal underpants in accordance with their three-phase business plan.

Step 1: Collect underpants
Step 2: ?
Step 3: Profit!

Of course, none of the gnomes know what the second phase is, and all of them assume that someone else within the gnome community does. Even when the lack of an intermediate step is made clear to them, they persist on pointing to the last step. Look, if you aren't against making a profit why are you trying trying to mess with our business plan?

Unfortunately, the gnomes probably never figured about how to turn underpants into profits because they have been drafted into the Bush administration and put in charge of Iraq.

Step 1: Spill American blood, treasure and national presige in a desperate battle against "an enemy that is determined and brutal, unconstrained by conscience or the rules of war."

Step 2: ?

Step 3: Victory!

Office Party Tonight

2005-12-15T14:43:00.000-05:00

The No Data Office Party is the main event tonight but I also may stop by this party earlier (as long as I can get my way past the door without paying the cover).

Christmas Classics with Manhattan Transfer

2005-12-14T10:32:00.000-05:00

Between Christmas parties, Santacon, hangovers and the mad year-end rush at work, blogging has become nearly impossible. Instead of any original content, I've put together this Christmas version of a greatest hits list.

The Holiday Guides
Guide to Holiday Parties.

The Guide to Gifts.

The Emotionally Unavailable Alcoholic's Guide to Holiday Romance: Women to Avoid.

Guide to New Year's Resolutions.

Other Fun.

It Happened This Year: New York Magazine-Blog Mash-Up.

Christmas with Manhattan Transfer 2004.

Christmas with Manhattan Transfer 2003.

Overheard at Holiday Parties.

The Best Thing About the Worst Things

2005-12-09T00:11:00.000-05:00

The best thing about leaving my office at six am this morning was walking through a city lit only by street lamps reflecting off the just fallen snow. I walked for a bit along the Hudson River, watching the snow melt into the darkness of the river, and then turnedtoward the inner island when the wind started to make my eyes water too much. The worst thing about working all night was not having to ignore the phone calls and dodgeballs and text messages from all my friends out on the town last night. No. The worst thing about being in the office until 6 am was that I had been in the office until 6 am.

At least, that was the worst until 9 am this morning. I was sitting in a cab that was slowly swimming through slush when one of my bosses called to criticize me for not being in the office yet. That was the worst. Well, it was the worst until later this morning when he started screaming at me for being sluggish. I'm pretty sure that was the worst.

The best thing about the worst things is that they're over. It's Friday. I'm leaving the office now. My eyes are already flashing like an Achean fighter catching site of the Trojans marching out of their city gates. I need trouble, laughs and whiskey.

We Go Where Eagles Dare

2005-12-08T10:27:00.000-05:00

You would think that after Saturday all-day and all-night debauchery, the Go! Team would need a few days to recover. Maybe a few weeks. But then you would be wrong.

Monday nights have long been one of my many weaknesses. Karaoke is another. So when I got the invitation to come celebrate Brother Lawrence's birthday on Monday night at Village Karaoke, of course I told him I would be there. And I warned him I'd probably bring my cronies along also.

Village Karaoke is on the Bowery, just north of East Sixth Street. It's one of those places with a small bar up front and hallways leading back to dozens of private rooms. You'd think it was a brothel if you were the type who knew what brothels look like. I showed up with Southern Gent. He was dressed like a civilian. I had my usual corporate costume on. Ted Baker suit. Charles Tyrwhitt shirt. The now beat up Guccis. We walked right past the bar because we'd brought our own six-packs of Miller-Lite Tall Boys. It's the national beer of Texas.

Lawrence's private room was in the basement. Must have been the largest room in the place. The place was packed. Everyone was dressed in standard east village fare: t-shirts (hand-decorated or self-damaged), jeans and boots. They stared at me in my suit like I might have been the police.

I stared back. The women at Lawrence's birthday party were improbably gorgeous. Don't take my word for it. Check out these photos. Or these. I'd met his sister Sarah before, and Lawrence had introduced Christie to me outside of Lolita a few months ago. I half-recognized Ellen of Social Cavity, Gurj and Kristin from the interwebs.

The party was well underway. Karaoke Party = Miller Time.

Southern Gent got to singing.

Lawrence took to the microphone.

Which caused a spontaneous dance party eruption.

Too much drinking on a Monday = time to pay a visit to Cellar!

That's bartender Betsy Mittens. It's about here, right at the door to Cellar, that my pictures stop making sense, and the night goes dark and smells like whiskey.

Happy birthday Lawrence!

Another Saturday In the Drunk Tank With the Go Team

2005-12-05T14:59:00.000-05:00

The plan for Saturday morning was to wake up early and join Dynatrite (no updates ever) and Southern Gent for the UNC-Kentucky basketball game somewhere on the Upper East Side. Mostly I cannot be bothered to travel anywhere north of Union Square Park for drinks. The only exceptions are certain holidays and sporting events, when dodging the spilt beer and regurgitated liquor of fraternity-brothers-cum-investment-bankers is part of the fun. The night before I sent a text message out to Time Out's Jane Borden, a UNC graduate, letting her know her presence would be required uptown.

Southern Gent sent me a text at half-past eleven instructing me to rise and shine. My head was still full of Friday night's fun, though, so I rolled over and told myself I'd try to make it uptown for the second half of the game. When I openned my eyes a few minutes later three hours had gone past. The game was over. UNC won. No need to go to the UES. Brunch was happening down in Soho.

When I got to the brunch spot the food was mostly gone. Except for British Jess, who was so upset that it was her last day in New York City that she was having trouble keeping her food in her mouth. The only thing left to do was order two more bottles of champagne and try to catch up with the gang.

Stumbling around half-drunk after the liquid brunch we came across a four foot tall turkey monster in the window of Ted Baker.

(Let's take a parenthecial Time Out. Ted Baker is the official clothier of Manhattan Transfer ever since I discovered their Endurance line of business suits. You can wake-up on the floor of the Cellar in these things, brush yourself off and head straight to you. Well, I'm not sure you can do this, but I can. Okay. Time In.)

The monster was marked "Turkeyoke Turkey" or some such. Notice the microphone. Jess and Lisa E. decided that they needed to get down with the monster. At first the Ted Baker employees tried to stop them but later relented on the condition that if the girls broke the turkey they would have to buy it. (What is the going rate for a Karaoke Turkey Monster these days?)

Clearly this was a sign from the gods of Saturday (Saturn?). We needed to get our song on. So we bundled ourselves against the cold wind and headed up to Sing-Sing on St. Marks to begin what will hopefully be a regular event: bruncheoke (apologies to Janelle, from whom I think I stole that word).

A couple of Tall Boys of Miller Lite later and it was on.

Southern Gent shows us how to Bust a Move.

The shit was bananas.

Finally it was time for Jess to say her last goodbyes and head back home to Jolly Ole. She tried to use her trademark photo face to convince us that JFK was totally happening at five thirty on a Saturday afternoon and that we should all go there with her. A few more Tall Boys and that might have made sense. Fortunatley, the beer had run out before my sense of reality.

Next up was Double J's holiday party in the Village. Swampcity (less updates than Dynatrite!) was there, practicing giving men the evil eye.

As you can tell, everyone was having a really good time at this party.

The next party was in another apartment in the Village. Only two blocks away but about ten years more grown-up than Double-J's. Think people standing around drinking very slowly and chatting about their mortgages and admiring the art work hanging on the twenty foot high walls.

Blondie made nice with this guy, who claimed to be a friend of Dynatrite. (I cannot find the pictures in Flickr even though I swear I uploaded them last night.)

I'm not sure what time it was when we finally headed down to the Lower East Side's Loreley for yet another No Data. Actually, I know exactly when it was: too early. We got there and the place was empty. A few people were sitting at tables eating dinner.

This girl was as confused as we were. Where was everyone? Or maybe she was just wondering where her hips had gone and why she had forgotten to eat for the last two years.

Even DJs Dennis and Randeez were worried.

Blondie hit the bar and found another guy to chat with.

That was a good idea. Let's let the magic of booze and beer do its trick.

It worked. When I lifted my face out of the stein of Jever, kids were dancing everywhere.

The skinny girl still hadn't found her hips but she had stolen someone's shirt.

Southern Gent was still going after many hours under the tyranny of booze, song and women.

And pretty girls were there too.

I'm not sure how long I stayed. Dennis reports that the party went on until five in the morning. Youngna reports she captured me saying incriminating things on her dangerous ipod voice recorder. When we left the city was blanketed with snow and quiet. At home I slept the sleep that only the the Gods of Saturday night can grant you.

(Apologies to TeenDrama, from whom I totally stole this style of blog. Consider it a tribute in gratitude for a great Saturday night.)

Weekend Lineup

2005-12-02T12:29:00.000-05:00

Last night I missed the Steven Pinker lecture on the controversial article "The Natural History of Ashkenazi Intelligence" by Jason Hardy, Henry Harpending and (occassional MT commenter) Greg Cochran. This was doubly disappointing because it meant I missed a chance to meet one of my favorite new bloggers, Lying Eyes.

I spent a good part of last Saturday's brunch discussing the "Natural History" paper with a friend of mine who is an instructor in the Department of Radiology at Harvard and one of the leading lights in using those fancy magnetic resonance machines to study how the brain works. He was impressed with the paper and told me he was going to think about some ways to test some of its ideas using the big magnet machines they've got over in Massachusetts General Hospital.

I did manage to make the tail-end of Essexy at 12" , which is like No Data but with girls like Funlap and Youngna DJing. What does it mean to be like "No Data"? Take two parts tiny bar, one part the usual crowd of miscreants, two parts music and stir with plenty of alcohol.

Younga was weilding a polaroid camera. Still no replacement for the one stolen in Barcelona. Come on people, break open those paypal accounts and help a pretty girl out!

British Jess (pictured above) made a special guest appearance on the turntables (err, well, the CD disk changers). Afterwards we cut-out of 12" to check out thekthnxbye at Sapphire Lounge. What's that? Think No Data but populated by Cornbelt Ex-Pats like Red Chardonnay. Unforts, it was dead by the time we rolled in there. Next week I'm going by early.

This was suppossed to be a quiet weekend, especially after the debauchery of the five day Thanksgiving weekend. Not shaping up that way. Christmas party season looks set to launch. Here's the tentative agenda:

Friday.
--Fairwell Ice-Skating Party for British Jess.
--Welcome Back whiskey session for Sully, who has been holed up in San Francisco for way too long.
--Crash random corporate holiday party. (Any suggestions? Leave a comment.)
--Another invasion of the Bulgarian Bar?

Saturday.
--College sports starting at noon with Soutern Gent.
--Cocktail party at Double J's apartment.
--Cocktail party down the street from Double J's with Blondie's coworkers (Invite: "This is not the party of the year. It's the party you go to before the party of the year.")
--No Data returns to Loreley. (Is this a weekly event now?)
--Crunked in the Cellar. Might as well admit I'll end up here marinated in Jamesons while the youngsters dance to the musical selections of DJ Matt Eller. Isn't that what Saturdays are for?

Sunday.
--Sleep past noon and swear I'll never touch whiskey again.

Gay Culture: An Invention of Your Lying Eyes?

2005-12-02T11:22:00.000-05:00

I have managed to avoid most of the commentary on the Vatican instruction on homosexuality and the priesthood. I'm sure nearly everyone drinking in bars on the lower east side regards any type of discrimination against homosexuals by any institution as atavistic and hateful, so there isn't much to talk about. In any case, I'm not really sure I want to get involved in arguing about ordinations with a twenty-something hipster agnostic drinking Pabst between bathroom bumps at Welcome to the Johnsons.

William Saletan's article in Slate caught my attention. Or rather, one paragraph caught my attention.

Notice two things. First, deep-rooted "tendencies" are now independent and automatic grounds for dismissal, regardless of whether you "practice" homosexuality or "support" gay culture (whatever that is). Second, even if these tendencies are merely a "situation" in which you "find yourself," they "gravely obstruct" you from relating properly to men and women. Through no fault of your own, you're doomed. The Catechism's paths to perfection—self-mastery, chastity, prayer, and grace—no longer suffice. The church won't settle for your self-restraint, even with God's help.

Emphasis, of course, is mine, all mine.

What is Saletan trying to say with that "whatever that is?" Is he saying that "gay culture" is a figment of the Vatican's feverish anti-gay imagination? Where does Saletan live anyhow? I mean, it's hard to believe anyone who has ever set foot in lower Manhattan not believing in gay culture.

Fearing maybe my lying eyes had deceived me into believing in gay culture, I decided to do some research on the topic (read: I went to google). And yep, Saletan's right. There's clearly no such thing as gay culture.

Chastity Bed

2005-11-30T19:20:00.000-05:00

The rain was falling so hard that it bounced off the slick, black asphalt of Avenue A. I watched through the windows of Doc Hollidays as a man in a soaked suit ran past.

"So, I guess I'd better sleep with her tonight," the girl said. She had clucky jewelry on her wrists that slid down to her elbows when she raised her arms. Her eyes were all pupils and whites, separated by sharp rims of green.

A week ago New York had been thrown into an early freeze but that Tuesday night the thermometers must have been pushing into the mid-fifties. Her landlord had turned on the heat during the chill and now the apartment was unbearabley hot. She had an air-conditioner in her room. Her roommate, a tall blonde Czech who was at the bar getting us another round of beer and whiskey, had just asked if they could sleep together in her bedroom to share the air-conditioning.

"Hot," I told her.

"No. Cool. That's the point," she said.

"Right. Cool."

"At least I have a big bed. Not like those beds in college. You know. The ones that are completely wrong. All long and narrow, barely wide enough for one person, when all you want to do is get someone else in your bed. We used to call them Chastity Beds."

The roommate returned. It was time to start thinking about whiskey and stop thinking about chastity.

Save Youngna!

2005-11-29T10:55:00.000-05:00

My friend Youngna just got back from Barcelona. There are tons of pictures of her trip here. If you click through that link you'll discover it doesn't go to Youngna's photoblog or her flickr account. When she was in Barcelona her bag was stolen. She lost a lot of stuff, including her camera and her lenses. My heart nearly broke when I thought of Youngna deprived of her camera by evildoers.

Dennis has had the brilliant idea of starting a campaign to buy Youngna a new camera. ~~Go there and donate.~~ I've added a button below so you can donate directly to the Save Youngna campagin.

As an added incentive for you to donate to the fund, until the close of business today I will match any donations made to the Save Youngna campaign through the link below on a "dollar for dollar" basis, as they say in the NPR drive.* That's right, if you donate a dollar to Save Youngna, it's as good as donating two because I'll chip in the second dollar. Don't procrastinate. If you wait until tomorrow to donate your donation will only be worth half as much as it would have been today. (I'm not quite sure how I'll confirm you donated to Save Youngna from this site so let's do this on the honor system. If you're a Manhattan Transfer reader and you donate, send me an email to manhattantransfer(at)gmail(dot)com or leave a comment to let me know. I figure I can probably just trust you on this).

[*There will be some reasonable level at which I'll declare this matching offer a victory but I haven't determined that yet.]

Short Shots.

2005-11-29T08:44:00.001-05:00

A couple of quick links for today.

Mimi in New York on the slain stripper.

Riot Porn: Pictures and posts about riots around the world. (via Steve Sailer)

Thanksgiving

2005-11-24T11:21:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'm retreating to the Manhattan Transfer family compound for the weekend and am not expecting to post anything over the next couple of days. But let's be honest. I haven't been posting very much recently so you probably won't even notice.

If you need your Manhattan Transfer fix, however, feel free to read about last year's Thanksgiving Eve. Reading that made me realize that I'm a lot less deep in the drink this year than I was last year. And so is Overserved. It makes my liver ache just reading about that night.

A Sample of the Spring Social Season

2005-11-16T14:49:00.000-05:00

I was cleaning out my gmail account this morning and came across this email I sent out last spring. I cannot imagine where I found the energy to go through weekends like this. Or maybe I should be wondering where that energy went.

To the Go Team:

I've outlined this weekend's activities below. You should join me at any of these (some of you already are). Or better yet, all of them.

Except if you want to come to the Blue Jean ball you need to help the Children's Aid Society to the tune of $150 because it’s a charity event. Or you can tell them your covering it for the press and demand free admission, like I did. Then you have to live with the knowledge that you cheated needy kids out of $150.

It seems to me that I still have brunch available on Saturday, so if you're not inclined toward any of these, perhaps we should get together then.

All times are approximate (read: I'm going to be late to everything).

Friday
Birthday drinks for BM at the Flat Iron Lounge. Seven o'clock.

Birthday drinks for Janelle at the Dove. Eight o'clock.

Birthday drinks for BS at Sweet & Vicious. Nine-thirty.

Saturday
Spring Saturday BBQ at Jill's apartment XXXXX Street, Apt 5b. May involve a hot tub, weather permitting. Four o'clock.

The opening of From Root to Fruit, featuring the work of Nick Lamia and thirteen other artists, at the Alona Kagan Gallery, 540 West 29 Street. Six o'clock.

Hoe Down at the Sonama Rooftop, XXX East X Street (Second Ave.) Six-thirty.

Blue Jean Ball at Gotham Hall, 1356 Broadway (36th Street). Nine o'clock.

Sunday
Brunch (organized by Lindsayism) at Miracle Grill, 1st Avenue between 6th and 7th. One o'clock.

Flight of the Conchords, musical/comedy thing, at the Living Room, Ludlow (between Stanton and Rivington). 7:45. $5.

--All the best, MT

Wow. I've really slacked off on my social activities lately. Time to get back on track. The fall social season has officially begun.

If Ahmad Chalabi Bought the New York Sun Would Anyone Notice?

2005-11-15T14:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday Gawker poked fun at the New York Sun's top of the fold editorial page coverage of Ahmad Chalabi's visit to their offices.

After reading the Sun's editorial, I'm still not sure why they were so smitten with Chalabi. Seems to have something to do with the Spanish American War--you know, the one where we won Cuba from Spain and then gave it back to the people who later lost it to the communists. Doesn't seem to me to be a good precedent to cite when talking about Iraq. But sometimes after a too-liquid lunch this foreign policy stuff just goes over my head. Maybe the War Nerd can explain it to me.

The thought occurred to me that maybe Chalabi is about to buy the New York Sun. I mean, he's in charge of all the oil in Iraq, so he's probably got the cash. And now that Judy Miller's leaving the New York Times, wouldn't it make sense for him to look for another foothold into New York media. The only problem with this scenario is that it would be redundant. If Chalabi took control of the New York Sun editorial page, I'm pretty sure no one would notice.

Champions of Breakfast

2005-11-10T11:56:00.000-05:00

This morning Gawker ran an item about Judith Miller eating breakfast at Balthazar. I guess this marks a new high (by which I mean 'low') in Gawker-stalking but that wasn't really what caught my attention. Instead, I was very shook up by the opening sentence from Gawker's breakfast correspondent:

I have breakfast with a friend every Thursday morning at 8am at Balthazar."

Now who in there right mind gets up, dresses and goes out for breakfast at 8 am on a set day, every week with anyone, anywhere? I'm usually still trying hold down last nights cocktails at 8 am.

I decided to IM my friend T-Muffle to ask what the hell was going on.

ManhattanBlog: Does this makes sense to you? Who gets up, dresses and goes out for breakfast at 8 am every week with anyone, anywhere?

TMUFFLE: Adults, MT. Adults do that.

Now I remember my parents used to get up and read the paper and drink coffee every morning. My father would check how his stocks were doing, because it was before cable television. My mother would read whatever they were calling the women's sections in those days. I don't think the folks ever actually ate very much for breakfast, probably because they too were trying to keep last nights cocktails where they belonged. I guess it's a family tradition.

[An aside: now that I've written the phrase twice, I think lastnightscocktails.com would be an excellent name for a blog. Memo to Krucoff: another one to add to your growing blog empire!]

The thought of actually going out for breakfast in the morning is so foreign to my life that I'm actually strangely attracted to the idea. In the same way I'm attracted to the idea of having super powers that would let me fly or be invisible. Hardly anyone I know eats breakfast, unless you count some rising traders who take their morning nutrients nasally, much less goes out for breakfast.

I decided to check out some likely breakfast spots and discovered an interesting class system operating. Namely, Balthazar opens for breakfast at 7:30 am while Pastis doesn't open until 9:00 am. This means that people who work can eat at Balthazar, while people who don't (or whose work is done while eating out) can eat at Pastis. Balthazar is Pastis for the working class.

Halloween Round Ups

2005-11-09T10:35:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe I haven't got around to posting pictures or telling stories about New York City's four day long Halloween binge. In the meantime, I bring you tales from the Halloweens of others.

Craig's List: Missed Connections from Halloween.

Flickr Pictures Tagged "Halloween NYC."

And since it's Wednesday I'll make this a contest. Prizes for whoever leaves a link in comments for the best picture and best MC.

Local Man Confused About French Rioting

2005-11-04T11:11:00.000-05:00

Ted O'Leary, a resident of the Lower East Side, expressed confusion over recent reports of rioting in France yesterday.

While sipping from his fourth pint of Brooklyn Lager at the Ludlow Street drinking den Local 138, Mr. O'Leary explained that he could not figure out why French youths were rioting in suburban neighborhoods populated by Muslims. "From the news reports, I gather these are football hooligans or something. But I cannot figure out why they are rioting in Muslim suburbs. Maybe they are racists, rioting because of high crime in those areas. Like the Ohio Nazis who rioted," Mr. O'Leary said.

The apparent source of Mr. O'Leary's confusion was news reports issued from the Associated Press and reprinted in many major newspapers. One recent report stated:

Rampaging youths shot at police and firefighters Thursday after burning car dealerships and public buses and hurling rocks at commuter trains, as eight days of riots over poor conditions in Paris-area housing projects spread to 20 towns.

Youths ignored an appeal for calm from President Jacques Chirac, whose government worked feverishly to fend off a political crisis amid criticism that it has ignored problems in neighborhoods heavily populated by first- and second-generation North African and Muslim immigrants."

Mr. O'Leary doubted claims that the African and Muslim immigrants populating the afflicted areas were themselves were rioting, telling a reporter, "I don't think that can be right. Wouldn't the press just tell us that?"

What Was Scooter Thinking?

2005-10-28T15:51:00.000-04:00

Let's assume for a moment that Scooter Libby is guilty of perjury. The questions that immediately comes to mind is: what was he thinking? He knew there were three other people out there (Cooper, Miller and Russert) who could reveal that he had lied to the grand jury. Did he assume they would refuse to reveal their sources forever? Or perhaps that they would also lie? That the aspens would all turn together?

Official A

2005-10-28T13:41:00.000-04:00

My favorite part of the Libby Indictment:

21. On or about July 10 or July 11, 2003, LIBBY spoke to a senior official in the White House (“Official A”) who advised LIBBY of a conversation Official A had earlier that week with columnist Robert Novak in which Wilson’s wife was discussed as a CIA employee involved in Wilson’s trip. LIBBY was advised by Official A that Novak would be writing a story about Wilson’s wife.

Which I take it means that Novak, who first published the information that Joe Wilson's wife was a CIA employee, is the only reporter we know of involved in Plamegate who continues to successfully protect his source from public exposure.

Two further thoughts. First, I expect that this will enrage Jon Stewart & Co. Second, I guess we may never know who told Novak.

Deep background with Novak is deeper than Deepthroat.

Update: Jack Shafer is the first to register his annoyance!

The Week Krucoff Took Over the World

2005-10-27T17:37:00.000-04:00

Last night we turned three bars and one magazine launch party into Save Krucoff events. Teendrama has the deets.

The Areas of His Expertise

2005-10-26T17:42:00.000-04:00

Lindsayism has a post up today praising John Hodgman's new book, "The Areas of My Expertise." Hodgman hosts the Little Gray Books lecture series usually at Williamsburg's Galapagos (except the next one is in Brookline, Mass for some reason). I've been to a number of them and some people I know have read at these lectures. They're almost always very, very funny and quirkily informative.

The last LGB lecture I went to was about how to commit the perfect crime. The whole Blottered crew was there. (I'll post some stuff there soon, Krucoff, I promise.) The lecture I remember the best described how a goof-up in setting the jurisdiction of federal courts had created a small area in Yellowstone Park where no court had jurisdiction. The result of this is that you would be immune from prosecution for any crime you commit there. I took a map of this place with me on my fishing trip a couple of months ago but for some reason my fishing companions weren't that interested in checking the place out. Come on, guys, you can trust me! This handgun is just in case we run into a bear!

Why did I start writing about Hodgman? Oh, right. The title of his book reminds me of a story.

About ten years ago a promising young anarcho-capitalist named Brian called to tell me he was moving to NYC to look for work. We'd gone to college together and at some point I must have suggested that he could stay in my parents place if he ever dropped by New York City. I was living up in Cambridge at the time and thought he might want to crash at my parents place at some point. Actually, I didn't really think he'd take me up on it at all. I didn't want to stay with my parents. Why on earth would anarchist Brian?

Well it turns out Brian did want to stay at with my parents. Not just crash. Stay. As in move in. He had an unpaid internship with a famous somewhat libertarian newscaster in Manhattan and no way of paying rent. I told him I'd check this out with my parents but he had already called them. In fact, he was calling me from their place.

Brian stayed through his internship, and then kept staying. He got a job working for my father processing data, and became very good friends with my parents and the official walker of my dog. When I got home from Cambridge that summer, he was still there, almost a year after moving in. He had his own bedroom. In that bedroom he had an extensive file system divided into various categories, each containing clipped articles about a specific topic. He referred to each topic as one of his "Areas of Expertise." When he said it you could see the capital letters forming.

"How many of these areas of expertise do you have," I asked.

"I have 36 Areas of Expertise," he told me. Then he smiled, "I have three areas of broad knowledge, as well. WIthin four months, they will become Areas of Expertise as well."

The Key to Victory: Boots on the Ground

2005-10-25T13:07:00.000-04:00

Today is Saint Crispin’s Day. For most people, this day is probably best known as the occasion on which Shakespeare’s Henry V gives the famous band of brothers speech just before the battle of Agincourt. I went through a fanatic Shakespeare period during college in which I saw every Shakespeare performance I could (which was a lot, as I was living in London at the time), so I must have heard or read the speech a dozen times before I got around to asking who this Saint Crispin fellow was anyway.

It turns out that Crispin and his brother, Saint Crispian, were Roman nobles who went on an evangelical mission in Gaul in the middle of the third century. In order to avoid having to live off the charity of the faithful, the brothers took up the trade of shoemaking. Their charity, piety and hard work impressed the local enough that it got the local Roman governor’s attention and eventually led to their execution. Together they are the patron saints of cobblers, and are thought of as demonstrating that attention to wordly professions is neither an impediment toward holiness nor an excuse for avoiding Christian obligations.

Last night, under the influence of too much whiskey, I wound up explaining to someone how this also makes them anachronistic symbols of our victory over the Neanderthals. As I have been telling people for years, it was the invention of shoes that gave us the edge over our prehistoric competitors. Now just because I’ve been telling people that doesn’t mean I had any reason to believe it. It was just something that was fun to say.

Until now. Recent evidence suggests that we started wearing shoes around 30,000 years ago, right about the time the Neanderthals exited stage oblivion. It circumstantial but the timing is right. Tonight I plan to raise at least a few glasses in honor of Crispin and Crispian, cobblers everywhere, and those original, bold shoemakers who gave our ancestors the perhaps decisive edge over those powerful Neanderthals.

Casualties of the Night

2005-10-24T11:59:00.000-04:00

I dropped by Lolita bar Saturday night, where the lads of No Data were in charge of the music. The place was packed full of a lot of my favorite people. Someone slipped something in my drink, though. Something like whiskey. I ended up in some after hours place on Ludlow. Barely beat the sunrise home. As my friend Gavin told me the next day, "Nothing good happens after four in the morning." I need to add that to my list of Tips for Living.

The really bad thing that happened was that someone stole my camera at the afterhours. Right out of my coat pocket. Check out my flickr site if you want. There won't be anything new up there for a while.

Sigh. I guess now I need a new camera. Any recommendations?

Update: Here's Dens' version of events. I didn't know that was a rap video. I thought it was just a convention of thugs. Does that mean a rapper stole my camera?

More pictures here and here. Oh, and there should be some going up here all week long.

The Sticky Shadow Wars Begin

2005-10-21T12:17:00.000-04:00

Lock, I hope you realize that this means that I'm going to sticky shadow your apartment with the message "Free Booze and Meth After-Party in Apt. #XX. Ring doorbell anytime after midnight." I'm just saying.

99 Tips for Living

2005-10-19T18:37:00.000-04:00

* You should never have to match your socks, other than to separate black from white; buy 18 pairs of identical socks in each color and throw them all out every six months.
* Pants with pleats get cuffs; pants without, do not.
* Avoid large faced watches if you have thin wrists.
* Sunglasses may only be worn indoors after 1 a.m.
* Carry around those small bottles of hand sanitizer and use some before you eat.
* Business casual was invented to prevent younger people from dressing better than their bosses. Rebel and wear and a suit or jeans.
* If you need to put stuff in your hair to add shine or hold, you are washing your hair too often.
* Yes, you do have to floss.
* If you are handling a small baggy in a bathroom stall, face away from the open toilet and you will never drop it in there.
* When a friend calls after a drunken night, never say, “You were so funny.”
* Avoid staying out past midnight three nights in a row.
* You can ignore the three-night rule if something really good comes up on the third night.
* You will regret your tattoos.
* If you wear a baseball cap in bars, the girls will suspect you are bald.
* Go to more baseball games.
* Time is too short to do your own laundry.
* When the bartender asks, you should already know what you are ordering.
* Learn how to speak before groups.
* An undershirt will prevent you from perspiring through your overshirt.
* Yes, you do have to go to the gym.
* Complaining about other people smoking makes you an ass.
* Stop talking about where you went to college.
* When people don’t invite you to parties, you really shouldn’t go.
* Sometimes even when you are invited, you shouldn’t go.
* You can ignore those rules about parties if it is a really, really good party.
* Drink plenty of coffee.
* People are tired of you being the funny, drunk guy.
* When in doubt, always kiss the girl.
* Tip more than you should.
* If a book is too big to carry around comfortably, cut it up and carry the pages you can read.
* Yes, you do have to have your shoes shined.
* It's okay to arrive late.
* You probably use your cell phone too often and at the wrong moments.
* Do not spend very much money on sunglasses or umbrellas. You will lose them quickly.
* Do thirty-push ups before you shower each morning.
* Eat brunch with friends every other weekend.
* Be a regular at a bar.
* Read more.
* And not just biographies.
* If her friends hate you, it's over.
* A glass of wine with lunch will not ruin your day.
* It’s better if old men cut your hair.
* They should charge less than $20.
* If you smoke pot, you probably smoke too much.
* Learn how to fly-fish.
* Ask for a salad instead of fries.
* Pretty women who are unaccompanied want you to talk to them. Ask someone for an introduction.
* You cannot always make amends with people.
* Buy furniture that you think is too small for your apartment. It isn’t.
* Cobblers will save your shoes.
* Figure out what kind of knot you like in your ties and stick with it.
* The first round of drinks is on you.
* When a bartender buys you a round, tip double.
* Hang your clothes up when you take them off.
* Except sweaters. Those get folded.
* Piercings are liabilities in fights.
* You’ll regret much more the things you didn’t do than the things you did.
* Do not buy the product insurance.
* You may remove your jacket and roll up your sleeves. The tie may not be loosened.
* It’s not that you’re unphotogenic. That’s just how you look.
* Do not use an electric razor.
* Deserts are for women. Order one and pretend you don’t mind that she’s eating yours.
* Keep rugs and carpets to a minimum.
* Carry a pocket knife.
* Subscribe to a small-circulation magazine.
* It should have a cork-screw.
* One girlfriend is probably enough.
* After one day of hanging, your tie should be rolled and placed in a drawer.
* People will dance if the music is loud enough and the lights are dim enough. You should too.
* You may only request one song from the DJ.
* Take pictures. One day it will be fun to laugh at them.
* When you admire the work of artists or writers, tell them.
* And spend money to acquire their work.
* Sleep outdoors when you can.
* Your clothes do not match. They go together.
* Yes, you do have to buy her dinner.
* Staying angry is a waste of energy.
* Revenge can be a good way of getting over anger.
* Go to the theater.
* Always bring a bottle of something to the party.
* Ask cab drivers not to speak on the phone.
* When the bouncer says it’s time for you to leave, it is.
* Do not make a second date while you are still on your first.
* Avoid the “last” glass of whiskey. You’ve probably had enough.
* If you are wittier than you are handsome, avoid very loud clubs.
* Drink outdoors.
* Drink during the day.
* Date women outside your social set. You'll be surprised.
* If it’s got velvet ropes and lines, walk away unless you know someone.
* You should probably walk away anyway.
* See more bands than you have been.
* You cannot have a love affair with whiskey because whiskey will never love you back.
* Place-dropping is worse than name dropping.
* The New Yorker is not a high-brow magazine.
* You aren’t really a great DJ. Those people are dancing because they are drunk.
* Don’t let that discourage you. If they’re having fun, you are doing your job.
* If you believe in evolution, you should know something about how it works.
* No-one cares if you are offended, so stop it.
* Eating out alone can be magnificent. Find a place where you can eat at the bar.
* Get out of the city every now and then. The parties you miss won’t miss you. And you won’t really miss them either.
* Never date an ex of your friend.

We Will Always Party Hard

2005-10-19T17:10:00.000-04:00

Last year I had a really great party to welcome in the Fall. I didn't think I was going to throw another but I'm starting to get the urge to invite everyone I know over to ruin my apartment again. Look for invitations.

Confessions of a Blood and Soil Conservative

2005-10-19T16:35:00.000-04:00

It was half-past one on a Friday afternoon. The part of lunch that involved food was over. All that remained were drinks, jokes and arguments. The bankers gathered around the back table at the Pound & Pence Pub had already begun to loosen their ties. A few had already had enough to drink that their eyes had gone glassy. Jackets were off, revealing gym-honed torsos beneath extravagantly patterned cotton shirts tucked into unpleated, uncuffed pin-striped pants. Blackberries dangled from belts, or else sat on the table. Every now and then one of the devices would shimmy across a few inches across the table, vibrating the arrival of a new message. Earlier this would have caused a momentary disruption, as the owner checked his machine to see if the message demanded immediate attention. Now the voices of these bankers had grown loud enough that they didn’t notice the spastic buzzing and crawling. As another round of drinks arrived, it was obvious that most of these men—there were no women gathered around the table—wouldn’t be making it back to their office that day.

At least four different conversations were going on at once. There was the market conversation—something about whether it had been wise for the firm to purchase a swap involving credit risk of international hotel chains. In the patios of the bankers this was referred to as “taking a view” on the hotels. There was the sports conversation—although with both the Yankees and the Red Sox seasons complete, this was a somewhat muted conversation. There was the women conversation, and the less said about that the better. You probably won’t be surprised to hear that I found myself in midst of the fourth conversation, the one that was dominating the center of the table, the one about politics.

More specifically, we were arguing about immigration. The table was roughly evenly divided between those who thought America’s immigration policy was far too restrictive to meet our economic needs and those who wanted to see more attention paid to protecting our borders from penetration by illegal aliens and potential terrorists. The third position was neither a compromise nor a synthesis of these two. In fact, it directly confronted both of them by asserting that what was really needed was an almost complete pause in mass immigration—a pause that needed to last for several years during with no more than perhaps a couple of hundred thousand foreigners would be permitted to immigrate each year, and these would be carefully selected from countries with cultures and economies most compatible with our own.
This third position, of course, was mine. And, of course, it was mine alone.

As the conversation progressed and more drinks led to ever bolder restatements of each side's principles, it became clear that the disagreement between the “open borders” types and the “national security” types was much shallower than they had initially assumed. Both believed that our country was fundamentally a creedal nation, an experiment or project dedicated to a proposition about human equality and accepting its corollaries affirming the values of liberty and democracy. Being an American involved little more than accepting these values. What’s more, this propositional nature made us a uniquely great country because it meant we had overcome arbitrary attachments to land, kinship, religion and tradition.

The difference between Open Borders and National Security was a prudential judgment about how far to trust newcomers to our land. For the National Security types, association with jihadist Islam or a willingness to violate our immigration laws created a presumption that those values had been rejected. For the Open Borders types, the desire to live in the United States combined with the effort of actually immigrating here created a presumption that those values had been accepted.

My attempt to shake them from this agreement about the nature of our country began with the observation that a dedication to a creed characterizes a religion and not a nation. And the nice thing about a religion is that you can practice your beliefs anywhere you happen to be. If being an American involved believing the right things about equality, liberty and government, than why should that have anything to do with immigrating to America? Couldn’t these creedal Americans go right on professing the creed in their native lands?

Despite the impression that the alleged propositional nature of our country made us a shining exception among the nations of the world, it would in fact put us in very bad company. As Irving Kristol pointed out a couple of years ago in the Weekly Standard, the great ideological nation of yesterday was the Soviet Union. This is not moral equivalence—of course I would rather live in a nation defined by the ideology of our Founding Fathers than that of Karl Marx. But there are important lessons to be drawn from this correspondence. In the first place, an creedal or ideological conception of national identity can have dire consequences for those who would dissent from the creed. As a point of pure logic, if assenting to a national creed defines what it is to be an American, dissenters from that creed are worse than un-American. They are aliens in our midst, regardless of whether they were born here or not. The creedal nation, in short, alienates or excommunicates, to return to the religious analogy, our heterodox native brothers and sisters while naturalizing a world of strangers who assent to our orthodoxy.

Fortunately, we are unlikely to begin shipping dissenting natives to a gulag because the description of America as an ideological nation does not really fit what it means to be an American. As I’ve already indicated, it misses the localness of our nationality—our understanding that being an American somehow involves a connectedness with actually living, at some point, in a place called America. Even the immigration enthusiasts tacitly acknowledge this when they say we should welcome more immigrants into our land. Other problems arise. Why should we restrict the voting franchise in ways that prevent so many of the creed’s foreign friends from voting in our elections? Why do we tolerate government restrictions on foreign co-confessors that we would not tolerate at home, such as the laws in Western Europe which have outlawed political parties or banned politically incorrect books? Why does residency and citizenship in foreign lands immunize our fellow co-confessors from so many of the taxes leveled upon us by our government? Why are we so much more concerned when American hostages are taken, or American troops attacked abroad? Why, in short, is the ideological conception of nationhood not a recipe for a universal administrative state?

This objection only appears to be extreme. I am not arguing that our immigration policy will lead inevitably to the dissolution of our country as an independent state. My point is this: very few things about our idea of what it means to be an American are intelligible under the theory of America as a creedal nation. The central question—the National Question—is one that the creedal theory cannot answer—why is America these particular people and not everyone? Why is it this place and everywhere? Why does our government continue to distinguish between citizens and non-citizens, between Americans and non-Americans, between us and them, here and there?

Historically, the reason America exists is because we no longer wished to be ruled from over there. That is, we made a national decision to distinguish ourselves from the world by declaring our independence from foreign powers. Indeed, this is part of the reason any nation exists—to divide and protect Us from Them. Why should we undertake this divisive endeavor? We’ve known that answer at least since Plato composed his Republic, which in Book II describes the formation of the state as a response to danger of plunder by foreigners. We create nations as an assertion of self-rule because the alternative is rule by others, which all too frequently means exploitation for the benefit of others. To paraphrase John Steinbeck’s Tom Joad, historically we created America to throw out that cops that ain’t our people.

This kind of historical answer can only be the start of a fuller answer because it raise a further question: where does this feeling of “we” come from? Here again, we are driven into history, although in a different way. Our sense of togetherness as a national “we” comes, as the brilliant online writer Larry Auster has said, from “the experience of a particular group of people living together in one place under common institutions and joined together by their history as such, and by the beliefs, attitudes and habits, the loyalties and aversions, the personal and family ties, and even the distinctions and disputes that have grown out of that history.” That shared experience has given rise to something that is more than the sum of those things—a transcendent sense of shared national identity.

One of the great advantages of this concept of transcendent national identity is its flexibility. Since it is not attached merely to one set of beliefs, social arrangements or institutions, it can accommodate change in those institutions over time. It is not, however, infinitely malleable. Although we can accommodate newcomers, we must assure that both we do not indulge them so as to retard our ability to adjust to them and their ability to become us through shared experience. That means we must take care that we do not welcome too many immigrants or immigrants for or with whom sharing the national experience will be too difficult, and we must periodically suspend this process of welcoming newcomers in order to assure that the national identity remains strong enough to undertake the necessary adjustments.

One of the great disadvantages of the concept of transcendent national identity is that it is unlikely to make sense to people who have lost a taste for transcendence. To some, this is all so much hokum and baloney. They want the meaning of America to involve something more concrete, something that can be expressed in an equation, syllogism or statistic. This is a common view among social planners, people who want to make our world more legible, more rational, less arbitrary. Unfortunately for this type, our world cannot be reduced in this way. As we have seen in the attempt to reduce the National Question to the question of ideology, these descriptions do not fit what it is they are trying to describe. These maps do not match the territory.

In the October issue of First Things, Richard John Neuhaus quotes leading same-sex marriage advocate William N. Eskridge. Transforming the law to fit with the gay experience, Eskridge says, “involves the reconfiguration of family—de-emphasizing blood, gender and kinship ties and emphasizing the value of interpersonal commitment.” Something like this is going on with the project of remaking America as an ideological nation. The opponents of this attempt to reconfigure the family claim that it amounts to the abolition of the family. I won’t claim that reconfiguring America will abolish America, but it would require the loss of our nation identity as we have known it.

"We might first," I said to the bankers, "want to make some very extensive inquiries into what exactly it is proposed we will receive in return for this loss."

At this point I think I began singing, probably some sort of nationalistic dirge I remembered from a copybook of poems written during the decline of the British Empire. I had clearly had too much to drink. There were shouts for me to relinquish the floor and protests against my inability to carry a tune. Someone shouted that what we’d get in exchange for our identity was money, and lots of it. Speaking of which, someone else said, if I was going to keep on talking shouldn’t I at least buy the next round of drinks?

Great Minds

2005-10-18T11:15:00.000-04:00

The day before I left for Iowa, the New York Times published one of their "36 hours" articles about Des Moines. The 36 Hours series are generally very useful guides packed with up-to-date information about thing to do in cities which are not New York. The idea is that if you wanted to, you could manage to do everything mentioned in the article in 36 hours. I don't reccomend trying it, though. There's usually so much packed into these pieces that you'd be exhausted if you tried to everything. Pick and choose what you want, and then tell yourself you'll do the rest when you return someday.

The picture that ran above the article looked familiar to me. And then I realized I took almost the exact same picture two years ago. Have a look for yourself.

>

The top picture is from the Times. The bottom one is mine. We must have been standing in exactly the same place when we took these pictures.

Which do you prefer? The Times is cropped more interestingly, the colors jump out much better. It was obviously taken with a better lense and probably has had some work done to it. I don't even have a trial version of photoshop, so mine is entirely from my point and shoot, pocket-size digital camera to your eyes.
I do think that the light is more interesting in my shot.

The Sun Sets On The Cornbelt

2005-10-18T10:36:00.000-04:00

The Only Thing That Would Have Made My Trip to the Tetons Better

2005-10-17T14:56:00.000-04:00

I wonder if Mitch can fish?

One More Picture of Fishing Out West

2005-10-17T14:38:00.000-04:00

Most Desperatest Missed Connection Ever

2005-10-12T16:46:00.000-04:00

Paging the IJC! I think we have a winner.

I know this sounds insane but back in the summer of 1992, I used to be a pimple face 19 year old who often talked to an older blonde male who went to Wharton Business School at the weight room. I did not like blondes nor older men then but time later I saw you with an olive skinned brunette beauty (whom I assume was your wife years later) who resembled an older version of me around Stuyvesant Town. Then I saw you walking with your child who resembled a mix maybe 5 years ago. I always wondered about you.... What if...

You may not even remember who I am now. I have transformed and now am extremely fit and pretty. I dont believe in breaking up any established relationship but I just wanted to rekindle contact and a smile.

The clincher:

this is in or around Murray Hill

No kidding.

[Craigs List Missed Connection]

The Border Patrol

2005-10-11T17:41:00.000-04:00

Readers with more prurient tastes, or those of you intersted in immigration law enforcement, might be interested in my latest post over on blottered.

Off To Iowa

2005-10-07T10:47:00.000-04:00

I'll be spending Columbus Day weekend in Des Moines, Iowa, fishing, hiking and visiting with park rangers, taxidermists, homeschoolers and other residents of that particular swath of the corn belt. Back late Monday night. If you happen to be in Des Moines over the weekend, drop me an email and I'll let you buy me a drink.

Update:Nice of the Times to provide this guide just as I'm headed out west.

Fear As A Fashion Statement

2005-10-06T19:33:00.000-04:00

manhattanblog: so like, according to the Associated Press, the threat is "specific to place, time and method." uhm, why not let us know the place and time and then we'll not go to that place at that time.
artseditrixa: ah
artseditrixa: dunno
artseditrixa: fear is better
artseditrixa: don't you think
artseditrixa: it's the new black
artseditrixa: convenient bc
artseditrixa: you can wear it all the time
artseditrixa: and it goes with everything
manhattanblog: and it's slimming too

19 Guys

2005-10-06T18:09:00.000-04:00

Bloomberg says the FBI has shared with city officials a "specific threat" to the New York subway system, and is asking the public to be vigilant.

"Be vigiliant"? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Just stay off the subway.

Also, why 19? Is that some sort of magic number for slaughtering New Yorkers?

Looks like it's time to go back to being a War Employee. I really wish I had figured out what rosewater smells like, though.

Someone Buy Me This.

2005-10-06T15:44:00.000-04:00

A girl I met last night named Danielle Strle made this lamp. I like how the lampshade seems to float above the ground. The curve of the coppery stand somehow suggests biology.

If I had this I my desk I could shut off the florescent lamp and my skin wouldn't look blue-green any more and my eyes would stop twitching.

Also, I apologzine to anyone I may have damaged last night at Solas, Lolita Bar, the Cellar or 12". Never. Drink. Ing. A. Gain.

Gas Tax and Family Formation

2005-10-04T13:46:00.000-04:00

The fifty-cent per gallon tax on gasoline proposed by John Tierney on today’s New York Times Op-Ed page strikes me as really, really terrible idea. (Note I haven’t read the column. I was told about it by Pat Kiernan on “In the Papers” this morning—the only way I know what’s on the Times editorial page ever since they started jamming their own opinion page’s signal.) It would make life more difficult for many Americans, create new spending opportunities for the pet projects of politicians and special interests and help elect more Democrats into office.

Since Tierney usually takes a somewhat libertarian approach to policy issues, I was surprised to hear that he was advocating a new tax. Tierney is said to argue that this tax would “fix everything”—provide revenue to shore up Social Security, improve the environment by discouraging people from driving and—for all I know—he may even argue that it will improve our health by encouraging us to ride bicycles and walk more often. But what makes Tierney think we can count on the government to spend the additional revenues from this tax the way he wants it to?

Certainly past performance doesn’t predict this. We know how these things work. New spending priorities emerge and come to dominate—think Iraq, Katrina and Rita. Special interests lobby for a share of new revenues, and politicians pander to constituents with local spending projects. Information about how the new revenues are actually being spent is too difficult for the public to get hold of, and this public ignorance allows for even greater mischief from the government, politicians and special interests.

It’s not just a case of the government taking our money promising one thing and spending it on another. Increased federal revenues means increased federal spending which means increased federal power. The Supreme Court long ago decided that the federal government is entitled to use its spending power to coerce states into adopting homogenized national policies that it would otherwise be prohibited from enforcing—the twenty-one year old drinking age is the most famous example. Anyone concerned about the increasing centralization of political power needs to be wary of anything that would give the federal government more money to spend.

It’s also political suicide for anyone who doubts we’d be better off with more people voting for Democratic candidates. By this time we all know what causes some states to vote for Republicans, right? Steve Sailer spelled it out for us half a year ago, and even coined the phrase to describe it—Affordable Family Formation. In states where it is easier to have a larger family—cheaper houses, with more land and good schools—people are more likely to vote Republican. Where these things are less easily available, people tend to vote Democrat.

A gas tax making life in less-densely populated areas—which generally includes a lot of driving—more expensive, would help tip the balance against affordable family formation. And as family formation became less affordable, more people would choose the pleasures of urban life. For not yet very-well explained reasons, people who make this choice tend to vote for Democrats. In short, raising the price of gasoline would likely diminish the production of Republican voters.

This probably seems like a cynical political analysis. Who am I to say that we should give up the environmental benefits of a gas tax in order to encourage Republican voting? Let me put it differently. Right now, a lot of people are engaged in the pursuit of happiness by having families in a nice house with a yard and a decent school in the neighborhood. The gasoline tax would impose a fine against that pursuit, punishing and discouraging people who want families, houses and yards. It would be a government policy against the way of life of many Americans, social engineering against family formation.

I know there are people out there who don’t believe that people respond to incentives like this. But if you think that folks getting married, moving out to the suburbs, having large families and voting Republican won’t be deterred by higher gas prices, however, you need to explain how you think increasing gas prices will protect the environment by discouraging people from driving. Either it changes behavior on the margins or it doesn’t.

A better argument is that maybe I’m over-estimating the effects of a fifty-cent per gallon tax. It might have some tiny increase in the cost of family formation but a much larger benefit for the environment, I suppose. Maybe. I guess. Sailer only invented the affordable family formation metric six-months ago, so I doubt anyone has done the research to figure it out. When they have, maybe it will be time to consider the proposal I heard was in the Times today. But not until then.

All Chiefs and No Braves

2005-09-29T18:11:00.000-04:00

Just how many top deputies does Abu Musab al-Zarqa have anyway?

Underhanded Politics in an Underground Bar

2005-09-29T12:52:00.000-04:00

It’s the middle of the week in the middle of the night in a subterranean bar aptly called the Cellar. I told myself I wouldn’t drink when I started working again. I’m very good at my job when I’m hungover but I’m superb when I’m sober. Somehow I’m on my fifth glass of Jameson's on the rocks and I’m talking to a girl with pretty blond curls who works for the Federal Reserve. I started talking to her because I wanted to watch her full lips move and her blue eyes open and close. On a rainy night in New York City, you take your beauty where you can get it. After I couple of whiskeys, however, I find myself ranting about politics. Usually I avoid talking politics with girls but she’s a Republican, which as close to being as dissident thinker as you can usually find in the city. That’s what lured me into trying to talk sense into her.

I confess to her that I’m mystified by conservative support for George W. Bush. What has this president done for conservatives? She mentions that he cut some taxes at some point, and has appointed a few good men to the federal judiciary. Fine, but what has he done for conservatives lately?

She brings up John Roberts. “His record from the Reagan administration seems pretty good,” she says. She’s just finished her third vodka and soda. I order her another, and try to convince myself not to pursue the politics any further. I fail.

“Please,” I tell her. “That man spent most of his confirmation hearing denying he had any judicial philosophy at all. What's worse, his time before the Senate judiciary committee damaged the argument for a conservative approach to judicial decision making by allowing the Democrats to portray conservatism as something shameful.”

I wonder if I’m slurring when I’m telling her this. I skipped the solid part of my dinner, deciding to engage myself only with the bottle of rioja.

She smiles. It’s a wonderful, inviting smile that reassures me either I don’t appear as drunk as I feel or that she enjoys chatting with drunk reactionaries. She takes the top off her drink and says, “I think he was just trying to get through his confirmation hearings with as little trouble as possible. What’s wrong with that?”

“My old professor Harvey C. Mansfield used to argue that one of the problems with affirmative action was that it was underhanded, attempting to accomplish its goals while remaining hidden from plain sight,” I say. “The Roberts hearings contributed to the perception that conservative judging is underhanded as well.”

Somehow I’ve gone through another glass of whiskey. I look to the bartender and he’s already got the bottle in his hand. I continue. “Now the President is preparing again to replace Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, and I’m still being told by conservatives that we can rely on Bush to appoint the right man. Or woman. Or Hispanic. Or something. Do you read Anne Coulter? You should. She sets the record straight on our President’s dismal record of supporting conservatives.”

She takes the bottom off her vodka and tonic. She puts the glass down and places her hand on my knee. Her fingers are chilled from the drink. The time for talking about politics is over so I don’t mention that there was a time when conservatives would have been out for the blood of a Republican establishment that treated them so shabbily. Now it’s just libertarians, realists, paleos and reactionary decadents like me who want to raise up the battle flag. God help us.

Avoiding Panty Lines While Working Against Politicized Prosecutors

2005-09-29T12:04:00.000-04:00

Well, as you surely know by now, a monomaniacal prosecutor has indicted Tom DeLay, on the flimsiest of pretexts.

But it is not too late to do something, and in fact now more than ever it’s imperative right minded people show support for our Majority Leader. I can think of no better way to do this than by purchasing one or more pairs of Free DeLay! thong panties. The panties are designed for women, but there is nothing to prevent homosexualists from wearing them too, I suppose, as long as they do so in private. Even oldies can wear them, now that I think about it, which is revolting.

The End of the Long Vacation

2005-09-23T15:17:00.000-04:00

I took most of September off from blogging. There was too much fishing and drinking to be done before autumn sets in. Should be back next week. Lots of stories to tell.

Rotten Boroughs

2005-09-09T16:08:00.000-04:00

If they get everyone out of New Orleans, does the mayor get to keep calling himself mayor?

Cowboy Dinner on the Green River

2005-08-31T12:54:00.000-04:00

Pictures from Wyoming

2005-08-30T12:49:00.000-04:00

I'll get around to doing a longer post on the trip to conquer the west later. For now, here's a couple of pictures from the first days in Wyoming.

Lit Out for the Territories

2005-08-20T11:37:00.000-04:00

I'll be hiking and fishing out west for the next week or so. After that I'll be in Vegas facing what all my commenters assume will be my complete destruction. In the meantime, I think Miss Anna will be around to post in my absence.

Vegas, Baby, Vegas.

2005-08-16T19:43:00.000-04:00

I'm planning on taking my first trip out to Vegas next weekend. Drop me an email or a comment if you have any advice on where to stay, eat, drink, gamble and be merry.

Quick Thoughts on Those Foreign Types

2005-08-15T17:40:00.000-04:00

One of the astonishing things about our President and the people who work for him is how little they understand about foreigners. Specifically, the administration doesn’t understand the resistance of foreigners to reforms that would make them more like Americans. Iraq is the most obvious example. Immigration is another. I don’t buy that these people are dumb or motivated entirely by corruption, so what’s going on?

The operating theory seems to be that being an American is somehow more natural than being any other kind of person so that once we remove the chains that bind people to their un-American cultures, they’ll just start acting like ordinary American folk. Americans values don’t stop at Persian Gulf or the Rio Grande because they aren’t just American values. They are human values.

Unfortunately for the lads and lasses sent to test this theory in Iraq, it seems that a lot of foreign-types disagree. After our massive failure abroad, is it really a good idea to test a theory at home by encouraging more immigration?

Fight Club.

2005-08-12T17:05:00.000-04:00

If you're wondering why I haven't called you or checked in on dodgeball lately, it's because I lost my phone. In a fight. At 4:30 in the morning. Five guys against me. Somehow I'm pretty much alright because they were even drunker than I was. Also I'm apparently very good at fighting. The phone, one fingernail, about 20% of my dignity and a few random bruises were my only injuries. The real first rule of fight club is: don't get into fights after your ninth glass of whiskey.

Email me [manhattantransfer(at)gmail(dot)com]your phone number or take this opportunity to wrap up our friendship.

Let's Drink to the Hard Working Bloggers

2005-08-10T14:23:00.000-04:00

And while we're at it, let's buy them a drink as well. Steve Sailer is having a fund-raising drive. If you haven't clicked through the link on my blogroll before, now would be a good time to do it. Steve's been amazingly productive this past year, using his sharp mind to come up with ground-breaking statistical analyses that explain much about our confusing world. Among other accomplishments, he produced the best analysis of what exactly is going on with this Red State v. Blue State business. Steve enjoys a great advantage over much of the other pundit class, which is more or less statistically illiterate and afraid to look too closely at the results of human biodiversity. If you like what you see, click on his paypal donation link.

New Lease on the Manhattan Transfer Compound

2005-08-09T11:54:00.000-04:00

The landlord dropped off the new lease yesterday. I opened it with trepidation. New York real-estate continues to soar beyond the comprehension or income of mortals so the prospect of renegotiating my rent was not a welcome one. Fortunately, they've offered me the apartment at the same rent I've been paying since 2002, which is actually less than what I was paying when I moved in 2000 (I took advantage of the post-9/11 fears of people fleeing downtown Manhattan to ask for a rent reduction). Since I earn a bit more than I did when I moved in, I can almost afford this place. Hoo-ah. It's celebration time.

A Healthy Weekend...Ruined

2005-08-06T13:09:00.000-04:00

This was going to be the weekend where I tried to begin the recovery from a summer of decadence. TIme to cut down on the drinking, eating and spending. The score so far: drinks at Drunk vs. Sober, dinner at Diablo Royale, lunch at BLT Steak, drinks at the Cooper-Hewitt museum, dinner at Crispo, more drinks at Employees Only and giving up going to the gym today in favor of a beer soaked BBQ. Ah, well. There's always next week.

The Break-Up Blog

2005-08-03T12:41:00.000-04:00

Mitch McCabe is a break-up addict.

Somehow I find her sadness seriously hot.