Greetings!

A few days ago, I was fishing through the news when a tidbit caught my eye. On March 25, 2009, Newsweek posted a small stub on their website, an insignificant breadcrumb of an article that surely not many people will read—that poetry readership is down to the lowest point it has been in 16 years. The article, titled with foreshadowing, is blankly called, "The End of Verse?" and includes a link to a follow-up story titled, "Poetry Is Dead, Does Anybody Really Care?" written in May of 2003.

Now, maybe it's just because I'm a poet, but this does not fly. Poetry, dead? And no one cares? Poetry has been a beautiful, powerful, inspirational art form for thousands of years, from when Sappho first picked up to lyre to "that guy" that read the other night at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Why? Because poetry can—and does—express anything—from a wait in a dentist's office as a metaphor for war to a hilarious romp through language.

April is National Poetry Month, a time to celebrate any and all types of poetry. Beginning this Wednesday, I challenge you all to read, write, or discover a poem. Whether you're a chemistry major, a fiction writer, an historian—whatever. Go to poetry. Nurse her back to health. Tell your friends. Share her beauty. Read the Poem of the Week. Smile and shake her hand. Dance with her.

Find poetry. You won't regret the search.


-Christina Squitieri

http://www.newsweek.com/id/191012?GT1=43002

News Briefs

NEW MEXICO’S REPEAL OF DEATH PENALTY WON’T ALTER FATE OF TWO DEATH ROW INMATES

Despite legislation to replace capital punishment with a sentence of life without parole signed today by Governor Bill Richardson, two inmates on New Mexico’s death row will not be spared execution for their crimes.

Robert Fry of Farmington and Timothy Allen of Bloomfield will be the second and third prisoners since 1960 to have their lives taken by the state. According to Chief Justice Richard Bosson, Fry’s case should have been revised. He claimed the jury wasn’t properly informed of the legal standard required for the death penalty in New Mexico; Bosson created controversy when he dissented from the court decision to uphold Fry’s sentence in 2005.

When asked by MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow why the new legislation wouldn’t apply to Fry and Allen, Governor Richardson said, “…one of them, (Allen) in my judgment still deserves the death penalty for the most heinous of a crime in killing a police officer.” He went on to say he hoped Allen’s execution would discourage further acts of violence against members of the police force.

Although Governor Richardson is a proponent of capital punishment, he defended his decision to repeal the death penalty in his state by expressing doubt that its criminal justice system could be trusted with the heavy burden of deciding who lives and who dies. “Faced with the reality that our system for imposing the death penalty can never be perfect, my conscience compels me to replace the death penalty with a solution that keeps society safe,” he said. “I also saw flawed DNA evidence, I read about prosecutorial abuse and I think in good conscience I felt that as a leader in my state I couldn’t impose a personal view that I had in the most extreme of cases, so I decided to look at this alternative which seemed very viable.” He insinuated that life imprisonment in New Mexico is by far a more severe punishment than execution. He called the signing of the legislation the most difficult decision he had ever been faced with in his political career.

In the past three decades, 28 people were sentenced to death in New Mexico. Sixteen of these cases were overturned and five were commuted. One prisoner, Terry Clark, was executed in 2001.

In 2007, New Jersey was the first state to repeal the death penalty since the Supreme Court reinstated it in 1976.

When New York’s death penalty statute was declared unconstitutional in 2004, its one death row inmate, John Taylor, was re-sentenced to life in prison.

-Ariana Costakes

Sources:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OECpG0Pp8Z8
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/19/us/19execute.html?_r=1



From the Boardroom to the Champagne Room
Just in case you haven’t heard, we’re in a recession; and according to The Associated Press, our unfortunate economic situation has actually helped one industry thrive amid so many others that are failing. According to the article, because of difficulties obtaining jobs, more women are turning to the adult entertainment industry for work. Surprisingly, many of the women filling these positions have college degrees and have held white-collar jobs at some point. “Employers across the adult entertainment industry say they’re seeing an influx of applications from women who…are attracted by the promise of flexible schedules and fast cash.” The industry’s popularity has increased so much that Rhode Island’s Foxy Lady held a job fair recently. A local Rhode Island journal reported that 150 women showed up attempting to fill the 35 available positions at the club. Rick’s Cabaret club spokesman, Allan Priaulx, says that dancers at their clubs can make anywhere from $100,000 to $300,00 a year in cash. No wonder these jobs are so popular. With the average college student’s debt increasing and job opportunities decreasing, graduates are feeling the pressure. However, despite the attractiveness of the industry’s ability to help you make quick, great money there is a pretty huge cost attached. Steven Hirsch, co-chairman of Vivid Entertainment Group, said it best when he stated, “Once you decide to be an adult actress, it impacts your relationship with everyone. Once you make an adult film, it never goes away.” This advice could apply to the world of exotic dancing as well. Ladies, think about it. When your body is no longer able to make you that money, where do you go? Will the corporate world accept washed up strippers and porn actresses with open arms? So, before resorting to such extremes, visit www.idealist.org and see what else is out there.
- Aisha Douglas
Source: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29824663/?gt1=43001



Monsanto
You may have never heard of Monsanto, but let me tell you this: know thine enemy. Monsanto is a multinational, multi-billion dollar corporation that has both congress and the FDA by the proverbial balls. It is responsible for creating such gems as Agent Orange, Roundup, and Posilac. The first is an herbicide and defoliant implemented by the US military during the Vietnam War that has been identified as the cause of a wide variety of cancers and birth defects in the Vietnamese population, as well as a multitude of grievous ailments in American veterans. The second is an herbicide that has been shown to "cause the death of human embryonic, placental, and umbilical cells in vitro even at low concentrations". The third is the patented name for rGBH, or Recombinant Bovine Growth Hormone. It is an artificial growth hormone that when injected into cows increases milk production up to 15 percent. It has been shown to cause breast and prostate cancer in human beings, as well as catalyzing hormonal imbalances that potentially lead to a variety of ills, including diabetes. It is banned in every developed nation apart from the United States, where it is present in large concentrations in all non-organic milk and dairy products. On several occasions the United States Environmental Protection Agency has caught scientists deliberately falsifying test results at research laboratories hired by Monsanto, and the FDA is complicit in Monsanto's massive campaign of public deception. Monsanto's corporate attack dogs also work tirelessly to gut legally established standards for organic farming. As an aside, Monsanto also holds the patents for many cancer drugs---specifically those designed to treat prostate cancer, which rGBH has been clearly proven to cause. As if this is not enough, Monsanto is involved deeply in the catastrophic practice of water privatization in the Third World, is waging a relentless war on small American farmers who resist injecting their cows with rGBH, and is the primary developer of many genetically modified crops. One of their most widely used GMOs is Bt Cotton, which, grown mostly in the Nagpur, Amravati and Wardha of Vidharbha regions of India, destroys naturally occurring bacteria and enzymes in soil, thus rendering it forever fallow and unfarmable. Farmers who cultivate Bt Cotton boast the largest suicide rate of any other farmers (roughly 4000 suicides annually). The list of Monsanto's ongoing acts of ecological terrorism seems never-ending, and I will not attempt to enumerate them all here. I write this now because one of the corporation's most dangerous agendas might come to be realized very shortly. Monsanto has engineered a variety of crops that produce no seeds. They are lobbying congress to pass laws that require farmers to use these sterile GMO crops so that they have to buy from Monsanto every year. Think about it. Once we are robbed of our ability to produce sustenance from the earth, we are fully beholden to corporations. We are enslaved. No one, including Obama is going to stop this. It is up to us, as consumers, to retain what little ability to produce that we have left. Please visit this website and join the millions who are standing up to this disgusting corporate goliath.
http://www.organicconsumers.org/monlink.cfm

- Ingrid Feeney

Culture Corner

Crossroad Culture, Blues and Black Magic

The Crossroads—a simple intersection, that place where two paths meet—looms large in the history of many different societies and has even contributed a cultural lore all its own. Because these locations are usually outside of settled towns or cities, they have earned a shadowy and mystic connotation throughout the world. Greek, Mayan, Hindi, and African cultures all have their own deities who, while standing and guarding crossroads, perform magic rituals. African Hoodoo practice involved the disposing of ritualistic matter (i.e. candle wax, bath water) at the place where two roads meet. This ritual could have a variety of repercussions, such as the joining of two lovers or the pushing of an enemy away from a village. These customs have spread into European culture, manifest in the belief that evil spirits linger at these sites. Later they took on the form of Lucifer in American folklore.

According to legend, young blues singer, songwriter and guitarist Robert Johnson lived on a Mississippi plantation and longed to master his art. He took his guitar to a crossroad near the famous Dockery Plantation where he supposedly met the devil disguised as a large Black man. The devil took Johnson’s guitar and played a few songs for him. After he returned the instrument, Johnson essentially had sold his soul in exchange for his new found ability to play. The legend developed over time, and after the musician’s early death at twenty-seven, it took on a course of its own. Whether the legend is true or no, it is clear that Robert Johnson had prior knowledge of the legends. Many of his songs make reference to African “black magic,” and he plays up the myth in several of his recordings.

Many other people have since either claimed to have experienced the same phenomenon or experimented with the concept of selling one’s soul to the devil. Washington Irving wrote about it in “The Devil and Tom Walker” and so did Stephen Vincent Benet in “The Devil and Daniel Webster.” Sometime in the 1930s the famous folklorist Harry Middleton Hart documented numerous instances in which guitarists, banjo players, fiddlers, card and dice sharks, and one accordionist traveled to the crossroads and sold their souls in the same manner in which Johnson did.

To fully understand the concept behind the American folklore, one has to acknowledge that the fundamentals of the myth were not thoroughly un-Christian. In the African pantheon of gods, as in many polytheistic belief systems, the devil was not necessarily a fully evil character. The devil wasn’t the same figure as it is in the Christian religion, but rather something older and more sacred which isn’t easily translated into the modern sense. Whether you choose to believe the myth or not is irrelevant; the culture stems back father then any of us know. Black magic or not, the music is not only fantastic, but haunting as well.

-Victor V. Gurbo

Poem of the Week

       “For I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl hanging in a jar at Cumae, and when the acolytes said, 'Sibyl, what do you want?' she replied, 'I want to die.'”
       So begins T.S. Eliot’s 5-part poem, The Waste Land, a long, profoundly vivid piece of writing that has come to embody post-WWI England and “the lost generation.” Eliot, one of my favorite writers of all time, wrote this allusion-laden epic in the 1920s, finishing it in 1922 when fellow poet and friend, Ezra Pound (the man the poem is dedicated to) helped him edit it. Since April is National Poetry Month, this poem of the week will be what is, in my opinion, one of the greatest poems of all-time. As The Waste Land is over 400 lines in length, I’ll be focusing on just the first part, The Burial of the Dead, beginning with the chilling opening, “April is the cruellest month.”
       Fellow poets, let’s prove him wrong.

The Waste Land
              “Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi
              in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σίβυλλα
              τι θέλεις; respondebat illa: “άποθανείν θέλω.”

For Ezra Pound
Il miglior fabbro.

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

  APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

  What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
              Frisch weht der Wind
              Der Heimat zu.
              Mein Irisch Kind,
              Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.

  Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

   Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'

      Where to even begin with a poem like this? T.S. Eliot is a brilliant, brilliant man. A master of imagery, from the first line Eliot weaves us into his story, draping us in the muddy post-war world of contradictions. “Dull roots” mix with “spring rain,” the “forgetful snow” feeds “life” into the grass, “winter” keeps the speaker “warm.” From there, we fall into scraps of a memory, sailing down the hill on a sled as a youth, graced with flecks of German prose as we fly through the words, arms out, “feel[ing] free.” And that’s just the first stanza!

      Soon, we are whirled back into the opening scene, a barren, war-ridden land. Eliot’s work has such a cinematic quality to it, and his poetry feels as if we are being pulled from scene to scene, flashes and shutters of a camera lens and rapid cuts of a million different memories occurring all at once. The constant push/shove feeling of The Burial of the Dead gives even the most innocent of lines the feeling of being in a war zone. There is this heightened tension—you need to think on your feet, keep looking around, don’t turn your back on the enemy. Don’t turn your back on anyone.

      Alongside this destructive tension Eliot gives us an incredibly vast piling of allusions—one of the greatest pleasures I get out of this poem. Eliot brings everything from opera (“Frisch weht der Wind…/Wo weilest du?” from Tristan und Isolde) to Shakespeare (“those are pearls that were his eyes,” from The Tempest) to Baudelaire (“Unreal city”) to Dante’s Inferno (“I had not thought death had undone so many”). With Eliot, even the allusions you don’t understand bring so much beauty, darkness, and mystery to the poem. We are literally transported into a world we don’t know, can’t comprehend, and we are feeling our way along the corridors, our hands groping—wishing—for a light switch. We “know only/A heap of broken images,” all that Eliot allows us to grasp upon our first passing through.
      Luckily, Eliot is a kind guide, taking our hand like Virgil did and leading us out of the forest, down through hell. The only difference is, unlike with Dante, our speaker never does reach heaven. Instead we are left with a tremendous sense of loneliness and loss (“I was neither/Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,/Looking into the heart of the light, the silence”), the ruins of the “unreal city” and the tragic Sybil, forever floating in her glass, whose immortal words carry us through the entire poem: I want to die.
       Shantih shantih shantih.


-Christina Squitieri

Currently Reading

“Currently Remembering”

With midterms bearing down mercilessly upon us, I tried to choose my book consciously this week. I was determined to find something that you can put down and pick back up without losing track of the story, mostly because I thought it would be fitting for this point in the semester, but also because I was at the point where attempting to recount any book that wasn’t immediately involved with my school work was out of the question. I saw this book crammed in the dark corner of my desk and flipping through the pages, stumbled across something far better than what I was originally looking for. Open to any random page, start reading, and you’ll know instantly what’s going on.

For anyone who has ever taken a class with Professor Burgess, the title and nature of this book may be all too familiar. I remember being introduced to it, reading only a short snippet of Joe Brainard and then being asked to write a few of my own “I remembers.” Seeing as I don’t peg myself for having the best memory, I was skeptical as to what would come of the exercise. But as with most free writing, things start bubbling to the surface and before you know it there are pages of “forgotten” memories flowing out of your pen. After my first time playing around with this kind of free write, I knew I was hooked, and eager to get my hands on the source of this kind of simple genius.

Flash forward to last Christmas. My struggle to find and read Brainard’s masterpiece had slowly been buried under research papers and class presentations. It seemed like all had been forgotten about until, opening one small neatly wrapped present, I was reintroduced to Brainard’s fascinating and legitimate depiction of human memory: detailed, random, scattered and brilliant. His ability to “remember” so many details of his life begs us to question the very nature of memory and how much we fill in the gaps when recounting them.

As you open the book, you instantly see why I make the claim that “I remember” may be one of the few books you can randomly open to any page and start reading. Each page has its own personality; and each memory (some which last just a few words, others for paragraphs) can, on its own, be a new idea presented to the reader without introduction. No set plot, just sporadic experiences. Although there is a kind of development, it comes only in some sense of a progression of time. Brainard shares his life in such a uniquely personal way that we are tempted to find out whatever became of the man who has been molded out of these experiences.

This book does give me the opportunity to tell you that the big ending is reason enough to go to a bookstore and pick it up. My only request is that you sit down and give yourself 10 minutes to write as much as you can, starting each new idea from the words “I remember.” If at the end you become, like me, fascinated with this conglomerate of human memory, go buy Brainard’s book. If not, get it anyway. Because hey_ what other kind of book could be easier to read in the middle of the semester?

-Meaghan Keeler

Currently Listening

Elvis Costello and The Attractions: 1977 – 1980 (the golden years)

      Elvis Costello debuted onto the music scene in 1977 and immediately stated, “Love, I don’t know what that is… and it doesn’t exist in my songs.” He went on to say that the only emotions he knew and could identify with were “revenge and guilt.” Listen to a typical Costello lyric: “I don't want to be a lover, I just want to be your victim…” or, “Sometimes I almost feel, just like a human being….” His words destroy any sentimentality, and he articulates his disgust by mixing puns and double entendres with venomous wordplay that gives forth such a brutal honesty that boys are no longer able to take girls seriously. For the first seventeen years of my life there was only one Elvis in my household—until I came across that vintage copy of Rolling Stone magazine from 1982 in a record store on Long Island. On the front cover was a somber looking Costello wearing a bowtie and the words “Elvis Costello Repents” beside the horn-rimmed glasses atop the glum-looking face. I framed the old magazine and placed it on the wall next to my bookshelf beside the poster of a young Andre Agassi.
      Elvis and his backing band “The Attractions” were British punk, then New Wave, then Country, then Psychedelic, then Pop – Elvis never could make up his mind. He is the greatest lyricist since Bob Dylan, period. Better than Lennon, and certainly better than McCartney, lyrics-wise. Take everybody’s favorite poison valentine “Alison” from his debut album “My Aim is True” (Rolling Stone rated 168th greatest album.) Every single word of this song details the bitterness of unrequited love.

“Oh it's so funny to be seeing you after so long, girl.
And with the way you look I understand
That you are not impressed.
But I heard you let that little friend of mine
take off your party dress.
I'm not going to get too sentimental
like those other sticky valentines,
'Cause I don't know if you are lovin' some body,
I only know it isn't mine…
Well I see you've got a husband now.
Did he leave your pretty fingers lying
in the wedding cake?
You used to hold him right in your hand.
I bet he took all he could take.
Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking
when I hear the silly things that you say.
I think somebody better put out the big light,
Cause I can't stand to see you this way...
Alison, I know this world is killing you
Oh, Alison, my aim is true…”

      After thirty-two years, and a number of awful covers (particularly Linda Rondstadt’s version), there is still much argument over what exactly this song is implying. Some say the narrator is sneering, others say he is longing. Some say he is happy that she’s now sad, or that he is only assuming that all that he says is true but is simply deluding himself. And his aim is true.
Costello knows better than anyone how to express sexual frustration. In “Watching the Detectives,” he sings about the psychological effects of teenage angst set to a film noir detective story, and throughout the song the narrator repeatedly begs for her body.

“Long shot of that jumping sign,
Visible shivers running down my spine
Cut the baby taking off her clothes
Close-up of the sign that says, "We never close"
You snatch a tune, you match a cigarette,
She pulls the eyes out with a face like a magnet
I don't know how much more of this I can take
She's filing her nails while they're dragging the lake…

      His second album, “This Year’s Model” (Rolling Stone rated 98th greatest album), transcended the newly formed New Wave era that originated form the British pub rock punk scene; on it he articulated his disgust for fame and success and his fear of succumbing to it and becoming like “the Rod Stewarts of the world”—nothing to him could be worse. He wrote about his contempt of the obsession on conformity and fashion in his song “(I don’t want to go to) Chelsea”:

“Photographs of fancy tricks to get your kicks at sixty-six
He thinks of all the lips that he licks
And all the girls that he's going to fix
She gave a little flirt, gave herself a little cuddle
But there's no place here for the mini-skirt waddle
Capital punishment, she's last year's model
They call her Natasha when she looks like Elsie
I don't want to go to Chelsea…”

      When he wrote the hit single “Pump It Up,” he expressed his disdain for what he had become: “…Just how much can you fuck, how many drugs can you do before you get so numb you can’t really feel anything,” Costello said in an interview.

“Out in the fashion show,
down in the bargain bin,
you put your passion out
under the pressure pin.
Fall into submission, hit-and-run transmission.
No use wishing now for any other sin.
Pump it up until you can feel it
Pump it up when you don't really need it…”

      Or listen to Elvis attack the commercialism of the record and radio industry in “Radio Radio,” a song he was commanded not to play on Saturday Night Live in 1978—in which he pulled a Morrison and sang it anyway, screaming into the camera, getting him banned from the show for ten years. That’s what both SNL and the music industry needs today. Some character to keep us interested.

“I wanna bite the hand that feeds me.
I wanna bite that hand so badly.
I want to make them wish they'd never seen me…

Radio is a sound salvation
Radio is cleaning up the nation
They say you better listen to the voice of reason
But they don't give you any choice
'Cause they think that it's treason.
So you had better do as you are told.
You better listen to the radio…”

      Elvis ends this album on a sour note. In “Lipstick Vogue,” Costello sneers, “Sometimes I think that love is just a tumor. You got to cut it out….” Throughout all the pain and anger his songs are filled with, there is no catharsis. Nothing changes, and Elvis is still disgusted.
“This Year’s Model” was followed by the incendiary “Armed Forces” (Rolling Stone rated 482nd greatest album), an album that mixed his three favorite themes: political fascism, unrequited love, and sexual frustration. But he sarcastically wrote the melodies of the songs as cheery and poppy, and if you don’t pay attention to the lyrics of “Oliver’s Army” (named for Oliver Cromwell) you might think you’re listening to a bad Billy Joel pop song. Instead you hear Costello condemning the treatment of the Irish by the hands of the British, who recruited poor Irish working class kids to go do their killing for them. Elvis is British, but his family hailed from Ireland.

“There was a checkpoint Charlie
He didn't crack a smile
But it's no laughing party
When you've been on the murder mile
All it takes is one itchy trigger
One more widow, one less white ni****
Oliver's army is here to stay
Oliver's army are on their way
And I would rather be anywhere else but here today…”

      After “Armed Forces” came “Get Happy!!”, a whole album dedicated to Soul, Motown, success, disillusion, infidelity, and, of course, unrequited love. His album titles are always sarcastic, and again the tunes make you feel good and want to dance, but the words are as bitter as ever. “I’m the living result, of a man, who’s been hurt a little too much…” Elvis shouts in “I Can’t Stand Up For Falling Down.” In the song “High Fidelity” Costello pokes fun at how ridiculous longing for someone is—why would anyone want someone who doesn’t want them back?

“Some things you never get used to
Even though you're feeling like another man
There's nothing that he can do for you
To shut me away as you walk through
Lovers laughing in their amateur hour
Holding hands in the corridors of power
Even though I'm with somebody else right now…

Even though you're nowhere near me
And I know you kiss him so sincerely now
Even though the signal's indistinct
And you worry what silly people think
Who just can't wait to feel so frozen out
I bet he thinks that he was chosen out of millions
I suppose he'll never know about…”


      1981 started off with “Trust” and Costello displayed his deep baritone vocals on an album that he admitted was made while abusing whiskey and prescription pills. From “Imperial Bedroom” (Rolling Stone rated 166th greatest album), “Punch the Clock” and “Blood and Chocolate” and finishing up the 1980’s with “Spike,” Elvis constantly changed styles and lyrical integrity to always sound fresh. He has recorded with everyone from Paul McCartney to Burt Bacharach. Elvis was also a fashion icon, dressing like a geek but making it cool, dictating the New Wave style with the rolled up jeans and the Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Today Costello is not so angry anymore, he is hosting talk shows, and his lack of pain is unfortunate because it clearly has hurt his artistic abilities.

- David Abady

At This Moment

This week, Joe and Aisha asked the Brooklyn College Community, "What job would you take during the recession that you wouldn't normally take?"

Anything that didn't require sex and nakedness. - Tiffany

Subway sandwich artist. It was the worst job, but if money gets anymore tight, it may be the last option. - Dominique

Any job. - Andrew

My current job and I would take one with less pay. - Mike B.

Any and all retail jobs. i cant stand dealing with crappy customers and standing on my feet all day but gotta do what i must. -Shaunette C.

The worst job I ever had was working at this boutique thrift store in the Village (which shall go unnamed, but rhymed with "Randy's Slee-Pees."). The family who owned the store were straight-up time tyrants who begrudged you even the tiniest scrap of free time; if you weren't exactly on time from your (half-hour) lunch break, or didn't look busy at all times, you were sure to hear about it. It was generally a very unpleasant atmosphere in which to work, and I'd have to be damn near destitute to ever want to work there again. Thank goodness I'm not in that position now, but in the worst of worst case scenarios I know at least that they're always hiring...-Anthony W.

my standards are still extremely high in terms of job searching but if i was in a realllllly difficult position i'd probably take a waitressing job....or a cashier at a store....-Kelyn C.

There really aren't any jobs that I would do now that I wouldn't have done before. I still have the same standards. No cleaning toilets, no washing dishes, no cleaning hotel rooms, and no working for free. -Amna S.

stripper. -Beatrice K-D.

i'll probably be a cashier... but that's only because i am a student now... we lack options. If this recession continues after graduation i am NOT cashing!! I have very little patience...-Cle-Anne G.

Cab driver. -Haji M.

Slave. -Phyllis F.

High school science teacher. -Greg P.

Anything that doesn't involve having to talk to people; because before the recession people were sometimes nice, now they are all angry, cheap sons of bitches who want to complain about everything and it makes it very hard to want to go to work at all. -Marci G.

I would either be a back-up Chippendale's dancer, or the Brooklyn borough president. - Eugene K.

SUPER MODEL! lol. i guess stripper because sometimes i just wanna buy things I don't need or shouldn't have right now like gucci bags and some christian louboutins and go on holiday to forget that i have no money... YEP! I would definitely strip and oodle my goodies for cash and shoes - Melly C.

Prostitution. Kidding! (mwhahahah!) - Lisa

I would frot with Andy Rooney for $1000. Kidding (not kidding.) - Dan A.

Keebler elf - Jason O.

Greetings

Open Mics give people a chance to speak their minds. Last Thursday we got to see a lot of talented poets with different styles do what they do for the Brooklyn College community. It's quite an experience watching someone recite their poetry with the same emotion they wrote them with. Here's a clusterfuck of their work, molded into a poem for your enjoyment.

All you 2009 poets who rapped yourselves
Through beat-up streets and prison hotels
May the harvest moon smile upon them.
Winter wind creaks at
the scent of onions, escellions and thyme.
Destroy nothing.
God had come to reap me.
God loves to watch
and to be watched.
If life was symmetrical,
bodies would retreat back into warmth of womb at death scaling Jacob's ladder into oceanic bliss.
I've enslaved, warred, lied, stolen.
Why didn't you rebel?
But them little devils with them Russian dolls
hand gliding
747's partially splattered
dead nightcrawlers.
I screamed "Macbeth" and my nose sprayed cocaine graffiti onto Brooklyn concrete.
There's no tap water on this slow train.
I am still broad flat nose spread across my face like my big white smile.
However poetry I know
for that one minute i stopped singing
scampering, scampering, scampering
I lied to love.
Just like denial, guilt can be a bitch too.
I'm talking pints and 1/2 pints of liquor.
So this, this is eternity?

The Brooklyn College Poetry Club & LGBTA (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Alliance) will host their own Open Mic, Thursday, March 26th from 6-9p.m. in the Club Room (basement) of SUBO.

The Open Mic features:

Start reps Louisville, Cincinnati, and Brooklyn and can be seen at the Louder Arts Project and Acentos Writer's Group in NYC.

Charan P. is a poet/performer/educator transplanted from Chicago to New York. She has featured in the 2008 Black Women's Arts Festival in Philly and in the Washington DC Poetry Festival, along with the Nuyorican Poets Cafe and the Bowery Poetry Club in NYC.

The Open Mic will also include a guest appearance from SoundBites Poetry Festival featuring Mahogany Browne and Jive Poetic of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe.

Come read your own work, listen or both!

There will also be free food!

Enjoy the Blog!

-Joe Pugliesi

News Briefs

Hospital Would Kill for Organs (Literally)

Ohio parents Michael and Teresa Jacobs are suing doctors at Hamot Medical Center in Pennsylvania on the claim that their son’s organs were removed while he was still alive. Teenager Gregory Jacobs suffered a severe head injury while snowboarding on school ski trip in Findley Lake, New York. Gregory was airlifted to Hamot where he eventually died. Michael and Teresa claim it was not until 29 minutes after the start of the organ transplant operation that Gregory was declared dead. Specifically, the suit asserts that the hospital caused Gregory’s untimely death by removing his breathing tube and initiating brain-incision procedures while his brain stem still functioned.

Hamot Medical Center released a statement defending its doctors, describing their treatment of Gregory as “timely, appropriate and well-documented.” The statement emphasizes that the patient did indeed meet the criteria for brain-dead when doctors made their first cut. Also, proper consent was received to allow the organ donation to transpire, and “the protocols that were followed were consistent with all established donation procedures.”

On the matter of consent, Michael Jacobs admits that he signed the form for permission for organ donation, but that doctors pressured him into doing so. “It’s a process they use to convince you,” says Michael. In retrospect, Michael laments, “It wasn’t right to do that to my son,” and that he feels guilty every day for what happened. When asked how he’d advise parents who find themselves in a similar situation, Michael simply said, “Don’t do it. No one…has the right to tell someone else they can take somebody’s organs. No piece of paper should ever be allowed.”

The District Attorney’s investigation found that Hamot had not committed any crime, as they simply followed normal protocols.

Whichever side winds up winning the legal battle, does not efface the fact that in tragedies like these, no one really wins. Michael Jacob’s message resonates deeper than mere papers and consent forms. Just because something is legal, or documented on “official paper,” doesn’t mean it’s necessarily right. Who can say what is truly “moral” or “immoral”? What is deemed moral today might be viewed as immoral tomorrow, and vice versa. Perhaps the best thing we can do is simply to take everything in with an open mind, and use not only our brains, but also our hearts, to determine what is right.

http://news.aol.com/article/gregory-jacobs-killed-for-his-organs/384479
-Mirium Harari



“Talk and Die” Syndrome Leads to Actress’s Death

The tragic death of Natasha Richardson last week has heightened interests in the bizarre “talk and die syndrome” associated with certain brain injuries, such as epidural hematoma, from which the British actress suffered.

“Talk and die syndrome” is a rare condition in which a person hits his or her head, causing a severe brain injury, but eerily shows no symptoms until hours, even days later. In Richardson’s case, a full hour passed after her fall on a beginner’s trail at Mont Tremblant ski resort in Quebec before she began to display signs of distress.

Immediately after the fall, Richardson was escorted off the mountain on a sleigh by resort staff, but opted not to seek further medical attention. Because she suffered no physical damage – no cuts or contusions – and because she felt normal, Richardson assumed she was fine. However, the impact of her head against the snow, minor as it may have seemed, caused what is known as an epidural bleed – bleeding in the space between brain and skull – a condition which, if left unattended, can be fatal.

"When you have a head trauma you can bleed,” said Yves Coderre, operations manager for the Quebece ambulance service that was initially turned away by Richardson, “People don't realize it can be very serious. We warn them they can die and sometimes they start to laugh. They don't take it seriously."

About an hour after the accident, Richardson began complaining of a headache, and within two hours, was showing signs of brain damage. She was rushed first to a local hospital, then to Hôpital du Sacre-Coeur in Montreal, and then finally airlifted to Lenox Hill in New York City where she was placed on advanced life support and died shortly thereafter.

The bizarre period of time between Richardson’s accident on the mountain and when she began to lose consciousness is called a “lucid interval,” and is the key to treating victims of epidural hematoma. Had the British actress received medical care immediately, she may have been saved. Richardson is survived by husband and actor Liam Neeson, and sons Michael and Daniel Jack.


http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/Movies/story?id=7119825&page=1
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epidural_hematoma
-Dan Asselin

Culture Corner

The Bonobo: Our Promiscuous Cousin

People commonly assume that humans are the only creatures in the animal kingdom who engage in recreational sex and other sexual activities unrelated to reproduction. This is not so. The sexual practices of bonobos, our closest genetic relatives, are extremely diverse, and include tongue-kissing, same sex partnerships and sex as tension relief.

Male-male sex in bonobo society, known as frot, or “penis-fencing,” can be observed commonly as a form of conflict resolution between feuding apes, and also as a form of post-conflict reconciliation. Female-female tribadism intercourse is a form of social bonding, one that both initiates younger female apes into foreign communities, and also links up to an intricate social behavior seen only in bonobos, in which “female groups” are formed to overpower aggressive males.

Among other primate species, such as chimpanzees, individuals can be seen mounting one another as the result of heightened tensions, for example, when a foreign object is introduced to their environment. However, a mounted chimp will not tolerate a proposition very long before responding violently. On the contrary, bonobos are extremely open to the sexual advances of peers in tense or exciting situations, such as the discovery of a new food source.

Primatologists tend to credit the relative peacefulness of bonobo societies to their frequent, casual lovemaking. In competitive situations where individuals of other ape species will invariably respond with violence, bonobos break the tension with intercourse.

Learn more about the highly sophisticated sexual identities of bonobos, with whom we share over 99% of our DNA, by visiting http://www.geocities.com/willc7/bonobos.html, a great article by famous ape specialist Frans de Waal.

Poem of the Week

Walt Whitman Song of Myself
[46]

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and
never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the
woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public
road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far, it is within reach,
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,
Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten
forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand
on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,
For after we start we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded
heaven,
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs,
and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we
be fill'd and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue
beyond.

You are also asking me questions and I hear you,
I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Sit a while dear son,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss
you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress
hence.

Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every
moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout,
and laughingly dash with your hair.


Last week I was Atlas. The weight of life was crushing my shoulder blades and I was ready to say, “Fuck the world,” and hurl the heavens on top of it. That’s a little dramatic; I was really just having a bad day. Grandma’s getting old, philosophy was fighting my sister and winning, Death has a couple of people I know on her hit list, plus the person I talk to about my problems was facing bigger ones at the time. A conversation about prose and poetry with a friend led to us talking about the stress of the day. It was depressing and wonderful. She gave me this poem after we spoke and it helped take some of that excess weight off of my shoulders.

Walt Whitman is a genius that inspires more genius. People like Ginsberg, Kerouac, Dylan, and Stoker were influenced by him. His style traveled all around and offered advice to us as we read. Songs of Myself took us on the journey of his poetic and philosophical self.

This is the perfect poem to present to someone who is having a bad day. Lines like,

“My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public
road.”

and

“Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout,
and laughingly dash with your hair.”

can help someone realize they’re not alone. If you know someone is going through a tough time, give them this poem. Call them up and recite it; don’t even say hello. Email, text, do whatever you can to deliver it to them. It’s helping people help themselves to find a better day. Reading this poem is the first step to getting out of a rut. In the end they have to help themselves, but this is a good start.

Joe Pugliesi

Currently Reading

I am signaling you through the flames.
The North Pole is not where it used to be.
Manifest Destiny is no longer manifests.
Civilization self-destructs.
Nemesis is knocking at the door.
What are poets for in such an age?
What is the use of poetry?
The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.


So begins Lawrence Ferlinghetti's pocket-sized volume "Poetry As Insurgent Art". It reads as an impassioned manual for the poet, calling upon her, entreating her to wield her voice in an act of ecstatic defiance. To read it is to infuse your blood with a fresh gust of inspiration and a powerful sense of purpose. In its few pages, the poet will find a celebration of the word and an intimate portrait of a host of rebel muses. Ferlinghetti speaks to the spirit of the reader, incites him to rend spoken syllables and written pages into uninhibited outpourings of riotous beauty. Read it. Use it to change the world as this veritable saint of the Beat generation intends you to.

At This Moment

This Week, Christina and Meaghan asked the Brooklyn College Community...
"How do you feel about organ donating? Would you be willing to give/receive organs?"

"Depends...if they just died, sure, but removing people from life-support to harvest organs happens too commonly. It's one thing if they've been in a coma forever, it's another if it's only recent."
-Sean

"Yes, but not to Sean."
-Greg

"When I went to renew my driver's license I was determined on becoming an organ donor, but my mom is paranoid that once you sign up you're going to die. I figured I'll give her some piece of mind and not register, but I let my family know that I want whatever is salvageable to be given to someone who needs it."
-Meaghan

"A very admirable act...but not for me."
-Miriam

"I'd like all of my usable organs to be harvested and donated to people. From the way I see it, if I die, I don't think I'd have much use for them anyway."
-Salim

"Absolutely. I actually feel really passionately about organ donation, everyone should do it. I'd give them up now if i could safely do so."
-Tiffany

"If I'm dead, I could care less what happens. Strike that. I'd rather it be used for the best."
-Gabriel

"I would, but not all my organs. Something bothers me about my liver ending up in the body of an alcoholic when there could be a cancer patient further down on the wait list."
-Sasha

“HELL TO THE NO.

First off, who gets my organs: a kid who needs it or a celebrity or patient with pull on the list who gets to skip 70 people?

Second, if I am an organ donor and a doctor needs them, will he be giving me the best help I can receive or be waiting for me to give out?”
-Billy

“Yes. Because if it gets to the point where I don't need them, shouldn't someone else use them!”
-Kate

“Yes... I actually plan on putting it on my military ID and my license so someone in need can put use to organs that I won't need anymore.”
-Valerie

“No one would want my organs, trust me. Its a miracle of modern science that I'm even walking. If Goddess-forbid I ever needed an organ transplant, I'd accept one, of course, and if my organs could actually help someone, by all means, I'd donate them.”
-Meredith

“As long as whoever gets my organ knows how to play it, then I'll be happy. They might have to help me get it through my doorway though; it's heavy and can be awkward to move...jk.

I would be fine with receiving an organ if I needed one; who wouldn't? Although I'm not sure how I feel about donating one. If a close family member were sick, that would be one thing, but if it were just a matter of me donating an organ to a stranger or science I'd be more hesitant. It's a rather selfish and illogical opinion (especially if it's a matter of me donating one after death), but I imagine (one day a very long time from now) my body being buried intact.”
-Jacob

“I would most certainly donate any organs that I was no longer using lol and someone in need could make use of....”
-Danielle

“sure...I mean my liver's shot, my brain's well on the way to being fried, my heart's shattered and my kidneys...well, they might be okay, so I'd give whatever I could.”
-Aisha

Greetings

It would seem the appropriate time to talk about St. Patrick's Day and all things Irish, but I'm not Irish. Maybe the next time Meaghan posts, she can give you a run down of the holiday and the origin of leprechauns. I greet you all with something that affects all nationalities, races, and religions: Death. Death shows no prejudices; she takes whoever she wants, whenever she wants. A doctor just told my friend, Tim, she'll be coming for him within the next six months. It's amazing how many times a doctor can kill you before Death ever does. Straight-faced with their lab coats and stethoscopes, "You have cancer," then "You won't see next Fall." They might as well hand over a catalogue of caskets and a pair of coins to put on your eyes for when you die. "Make sure you pay the ferryman or your stay will not be very enjoyable."

Six months to live. You have six months to live. Six months is the maximum of course. They are absolutely positive you can't last any longer. How does Tim handle this? Does he cry? Apologize to his wife? Curse God? The doctors show no emotion. Tim was a strong man. Used to bike all the way to Canada and shovel the snow for half the block. He lost weight and his face has begun to sink into itself, pressing against cheek bones, beginning to look like plastic. A Minnesota Twins hat covers his bald head; hair defeated by chemo. For the first time, my friend looks old.

What to say to a dying friend? Telling him I'm sorry is far too grim. I want to tell him to dance for the whole Spring. Summon the strength to kiss the stars. Fuck the doctors and live. They told my grandma she had her final six months and she's been living an extra forty years just to spite them. But all I can do is tip my head and say, "Happy St. Patrick's Day."

-Joe Pugliesi

News Briefs

Viva la “Grass Mud Horse”

How do you protest censorship in a government that doesn’t allow protests? In China, a nation where stanching the flow of information over the Internet has become a science, enter YouTube and the mythical (and fabulously profane) “Grass Mud Horse.”

In an incredible striking anti-censorship protest, a few Chinese citizens put together an innocent music video—showing alpacas romping fields while a children’s chorus sings a Disney-like tune—about the trials and joys of the mythical “Grass Mud Horse,” a phrase that, when translated into Chinese, just happens to sound very much like “Fuck Your Mother!”

And it doesn’t end there. The lyrics to the song follow a tactic of phonetics (similar to the English “bear” and “bare”) by using words that sound similar but hold very different meanings—making this video anything but innocent. The Grass Mud Horses (phonetically, “Fuck Your Mother”) live in the Ma Le Desert (phonetically, “Your Mother’s Cunt”), while legions of their enemy—river crabs (phonetically “harmony,” the code name that Chinese bloggers gave to internet censors)—are eating their food source, forcing the horses to fight back.

As China’s government takes the censorship of their citizens very seriously, scanning the Internet constantly and blocking “seditious” websites, blogs, chats, and even text messages within minutes, this video has become a phenomenon for being, well, completely legal. As the video stands, the lyrics are of a children’s song, no matter what they are phonetically equivalent to, and the Chinese government has no right (or ability) to ban it. “I know you do not allow me to say certain things,” wrote Beijing social critic Cui Weiping, “See, I am completely cooperative…I’m singing a cute children’s song…you can’t say I’ve broken the law.” Since its first post in early February, the Grass Mud Horse has become not just a hilarious jab at the limits of the government, but also a cultural metaphor (they do defeat the evil “river crabs,” after all) in the struggle for Internet expression.

Viva la revolución? Perhaps not, but still a fascinating weapon against one of the most oppressive of governments. Who would have guessed that, will all the troops we send to places like Iraq, it may be up to the Grass Mud Horses to “make the world safe for democracy.”

-Christina Squitieri

Sources:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/12/world/asia/12beast.html?ref=todayspaper
http://chinadigitaltimes.net/2009/03/music-video-the-song-of-the-grass-dirt-horse/



Footwear and Freedom Get Flung

This past week, Muntadar al-Zaidi (more commonly known as the Iraqi reporter who chucked his shoes at former President Bush) was sentenced to prison for three years. Zaidi flung his footwear during a mid-December news conference in Iraq. At the time, former President Bush was on a “farewell trip,” and Zaidi said his shoes were “‘a farewell kiss’ from Iraqis who had been killed, orphaned or widowed since the US-led invasion”; shoe throwing is one of the most extreme insults in Arab culture. Zaidi was praised by the Arab world as a hero for his actions—clearly, the presiding Iraqi judge did not feel the same way.

Zaidi faced a sentence of five to fifteen years if convicted of assault against a foreign head of state on an official visit, one to five years if convicted of attempted assault of a foreign leader, and up to two years for public humiliation of a representative of a foreign country, which Zaidi’s lawyers argued for unsuccessfully. Zaidi’s eventual conviction fell under the second charge. Dhiaa al-Saadi, the head of Zaidi’s legal team, argued that the sentence was “‘not in harmony with the law,’” since his client was merely expressing disdain for former President Bush instead of trying to inflict bodily harm.

It does not appear that Zaidi expressed any remorse for his actions; when asked by the presiding judge Abdul-Amir al-Rubaie of his innocence or guilt, Zaidi responded: “‘I am innocent. What I did was a natural response to the occupation.’” Despite Zaidi’s lack of contrition, I find the sentence to be extreme. His actions were obviously a form of protest and Bush was not injured during the incident.

-Jacob Victorine

Source: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7938947.stm



The Green Church
By Victor Gurbo

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, like many other areas in New York, possesses a few sparse historical gems that give us an eye’s glance into the past of the city. One of Bay Ridge’s most famous sites was a United Methodist Church that stood on the corner of 4th Avenue and Ovington Avenue. In addition to being an architectural beauty, the building had stood at the site for more then one hundred and eight years, stretching back through generations of local citizens. I, myself, living in the area, walked past it every day on my way to and from high school, always marveling at it from behind its enclosing fences and hedges. Due to its age, the structure had become architecturally unsound and had been closed pending renovation. I, most likely as many others, never really appreciated it.

The site, since out of use and costly to repair, was sold for roughly twelve million dollars for the construction of condos. There was an outcry from the community, but none of the community members’ efforts could stop the demolition from starting late last year. I personally stood on a corner across the street from the church and watched workers remove the antique clock tower’s face and lower it to the ground. But that wasn’t the most disturbing part of the demolition that I happened to witness. In the process of the work, a graveyard, most of which was undocumented, was discovered. A total of two hundred and eleven bodies were removed from the church grounds before the building was fully razed. Boxes upon boxes of bodies stood out in the open air for a few nights.

Due to the downturn of the economy that followed the demolition, nothing has yet been built on the site. There have been rumors that a school will be built there, but nothing has materialized thus far. All that’s left of the once majestic old stone church is a wasteland of rubble and debris. It stands now only as a constant reminder that in Brooklyn, money, not history, is sacred.

http://curbed.com/uploads/2008_10_Green%20Church%20Destructoporn.jpg

Culture Corner

Culture Corner for March 16, 2009

The Mole People: New York City’s Underground Homeless

Living in New York City, we’ve all been exposed to the homeless of the streets. Whether they're panhandling on subways, huddled in a box outside of a restaurant, or digging for cans, the city’s homeless are a very visible problem.

But what about the invisible ones? New York City has a unique culture of homelessness—those dwelling underground. Known by some as “the mole people,” these homeless live in the miles of unused subways tunnels under Manhattan, from Grand Central to Penn Station, sleeping on the vacant tracks and in out-of-commission terminals.

Unlike the homeless that live on the streets, the underground homeless (most of whom have usually transients for a long time) have established a culture of their very own. They frequently do not roam alone, but are part of established “communities.” With the subway tunnels literally becoming their “homes,” actual “apartments” and “neighborhoods” are set up—and, just like in every city, there are both wealthy neighborhoods and poor. In the 1980s, one of the most “exclusive” of these districts was known as “the Condos,” an area since cleared by police that was swanky enough to have fresh water (from a leaking pipe) and electricity (lights were hooked up to visible electrical wires). The Condos were so classy that, upon being evacuated, everything from a mini refrigerator to a television and stereo were found.

No matter where you lived, however, underground homeless communities are fairly advanced, some of which even have a system of government. Some neighborhoods have “a formal hierarchy, with a ‘mayor’ and a ‘spokesman’ who are elected, and ‘runners’ who are appointed…” (p.38). These spokesman and mayors are in constant communication with other homeless communities. A man, J.C., who acted as the “spokesman” for his society in the early 1990s, spoke about a “loose federation” of “more than twenty communities” within a mile of Grand Central Station, along with as many as fifty additional neighbors, that keep in touch with his specific group. Because of this coalition, runners are particularly important, shuttling “medicine, old clothing, and information about welfare services” to other communities in their area (p. 89).

One of the most interesting and noble aspects of tunnel culture is that these communities—who have next to nothing—give so much to help each other out. Living in the same tunnel, the other homeless “become like neighbors.” In the words of Dee Edwards, “Everyone watches out for each other. One person goes on line [for food] and brings it down for the rest. When someone gets sick, we put our money together for medicine. People team up. You can just about make it that way” (p. 88).
Although the underground homeless were a more common citing for transit workers during the crack epidemic of the 80s and 90s, this culture still exists. While a 1991 survey by the New York Health Department counted 6,031 homeless under Grand Central and Penn Stations alone (p.39), current statistics still show homeless tunnel dwellers. According to a study done in early 2007, there were an estimated 1,624 homeless living in the subways.

Yet with this economy, the number of homeless will be steadily rising. How many will find the tunnels as their new homes? How many families, especially ones with children, will be saying goodnight with rats and human waste under their feet? How many will risk their lives down there? How many have no other choice?
And, more importantly, what can we do about it?

-Christina Squitieri

Sources:
The Mole People by Jennifer Toth
http://www.nypost.com/seven/05032007/news/regionalnews/going_underground_regionalnews_jeremy_olshan_______transit_reporter.htm

Poem of the Week

Booksmart Devil

So believe
So believe
In streetwise angel

So believe
So believe
In booksmart devil

So retreat
So retreat
From land-locked lover
With anchored armor

Sobering
Sobering

So believe
So believe
In streetwise angel
In booksmart devil

Sobering
Sobering
Sobering
Sobering

Poetry and music are my love affairs. While horny twenty-somethings troll bars for their weekly hookups, I troll iTunes for my latest melodic fix and then press pen to paper for release. When in the rare moments I am able to find a harmonious marriage between music and poetry, the result is orgasmic. I will meet this piece on the train, or at Starbucks, or under my sheets at night, getting to know it intimately without judgment, and fall in love. When I decided to do Poem of the Week, I knew I wanted to use the lyrics of Silversun Pickup's "Booksmart Devil" off their album Pikul, because it is the perfect blend of poetry and music, and one of my many ongoing love affairs.

Booksmart Devil works perfectly with the sweet, whispered vocals of Silversun’s lead singer Brian Aubert, but I never thought of it as a piece of poetry until recently. While going through the band’s official website, I came across the lyrics and read them out loud for the first time. I was so surprised at the ability of the lyrics to translate so well when read out loud. Some may disagree, but “Booksmart Devil” classifies as poetry to me.

I am not very skilled in the act of conjecturing when it comes to poetry. I just can’t seem to sit and dissect every line, asking myself "what did the poet mean?" Poetry should be felt, and "Booksmart Devil" is one of those rare poems/song that does not demand conjecture. It is one of those pieces that make the reader, or listener, feel. I never asked myself "what is a 'streetwise angel' or 'booksmart devil'?" I just kinda knew. It seems to just tell. While we may not know exactly what picture Aubert is painting with his lyrics, they do not require perfect understanding in order to create a certain vibe. This week, I want to ask you to look for poetry in unconventional places and let yourself feel the words. For one day, one poem, forget meaning.

-Aisha Douglas

Currently Reading

ALLISON BECHDEL’S FUN HOME – A BREIF ARGUMENT FOR THE DARWINIAN SUPERIORIY OF GRAPHIC NOVELS OVER REGULAR NOVELS

Were it not assigned reading for a class, I never would’ve picked up Allison Bechdel’s Fun Home. Graphic novels didn’t make a blip on my radar screen. Because of their similarity to comic books, I assumed the genre was lowbrow, incapable of communicating any real complexity or depth of emotion, and a cop-out for unskilled writers.

“Using images,” I would’ve argued if someone would’ve asked me (no one ever did), “is a crutch for bad storytelling. If it has pictures, it’s not a novel!” To some extent this is correct. It’s not a novel, it’s a graphic novel – a different species, and a more evolutionarily fit one.

Fun Home is technically a graphic memoir, a record and interpretation of events in Bechdel’s own life. For those of us who feel daunted by memoir, afraid of being sucked into an unknown and obscure life story, the comic book aspect of Fun Home allows for easy transition out of our own familiar lives and into someone else’s. As an artist, Bechdel is meticulous in capturing extreme realism with few strokes of a pen. She’s especially good at depicting the natural goofiness of kids. The childhood versions of herself and her brothers are drawn with slightly oversized heads and eyes, and their bodies are often tangled in those kid-poses no adult could ever manipulate themselves into.

In frames of a trip to New York City, Bechdel’s uncanny attention to detail in architecture so accurately captures the urban landscape that recently, walking up Sixth Avenue, I thought to myself, “this looks exactly like Fun Home!”

A traditional novelist is also capable of drawing out the essence of a city or of the quirky mannerisms of children using just words. But the charming cartoon renditions of characters and settings in a graphic novel serve a sleeker, more immediate form of storytelling, without sacrificing the descriptive nuance and intricacies of purely textual narrative.

The problem of dealing with dialogue in Fun Home, as in all graphic novels, is dealt with using the speech bubble: a device far superior to its novelistic equivalent, quotes. Even in the hands of the most skilled writer, quotation, with so many accessories – starting a new paragraph, constantly addressing who’s speaking, describing tone, etc.– brings too much attention to its own artifice. Speech bubbles are clear, direct and economical. There is never confusion about the speaker’s identity, and, in combination with a convincing visual language, like that of Fun Home, no reason to describe the delivery of words.

Though the aesthetic tools of graphic novels are more expressive than those of traditional novels, if their narratives are weak, they will eventually die out. If only one in a thousand graphic novels are as compelling as Fun Home, however, I think that would be enough to sustain the race. Besides presenting a few complex and sympathetic characters – Allison and her parents – the book explores some of the darker corners of the human condition. Repressed homosexuality, shame and emotional neglect in families, and meditations on suicide are all faced head on in Fun Home. The pages are textured with elaborate comparisons of Bechdel’s own life to dozens of canonistic works of literature, including Joyce’s Ulysses and Dubliners; philosophical works, such as Camus’s A Happy Death, and Greek mythology.

I’ve gathered from various sources that Fun Home’s headiness and literary leanings are exceptional within its genre. Still, experiencing for myself the book’s success in tackling heavy issues, similarly if not more intelligent graphic narratives are sure to follow. Eventually they will outnumber and take the place of their less-adapted cousin, the traditional novel.

-Dan Asselin

Currently Listening

Levon Helm, Back in Action

Few people actually know who Levon Helm is, not to mention how influential he’s been on the world of rock, country, folk, drums, and the history of music itself. Born in May of 1940, Helm grew up surrounded by roving bands in his hometown of Arkansas, where he got his first introduction to music. Helm, equipped with the ability to play drums, guitar, and mandolin, was one of the members of “The Band,” Bob Dylan’s famous back-up electric team that caused much controversy during his transition from folk to rock. In addition to being the drummer on famous albums such as “Highway 61 Revisited” and “The Basement Tapes,” Helm also had a separate musical career far from Dylan.

The Band played famous songs like “The Weight” (also known as “Take a Load Off Fanny”), “This Wheel’s on Fire,” and “I Shall Be Released.” What contributed to Helm’s distinctive style, though, was his ability to play drums and sing at the same time. His country-style voice bellowing from the drum set startled many viewers—a talent few people can claim as their own. After his endeavor with The Band ended, Levon Helm went off and recorded music solo, none of which received any mainstream success.

Later on in life, Helm endured a string of misfortunes that ended up shaping his place in the music world today. After losing a good deal of his money over the royalties from his work with The Band, Helm lost both his voice and his home. He developed throat cancer around the time when his barn in Woodstock, where he lived, burned to the ground. Helm was down and out, sick, homeless, and forgotten. His situation, however, turned around. After receiving treatment for his illness, his friends in Woodstock preformed a barn razing, constructing a new home based around a recording studio. His new band, all working for no pay, have played with Helm every month at his new home/studio at a show known as “The Midnight Ramble” to offset the costs of the previous years.

Helm has made a complete turn around. He recently released a new album called “The Dirt Farmer,” which may be his greatest work yet. The album delves back into Helm’s roots and contains a series of songs he grew up with and interpreted over the years. He now plays shows in New York City, and is popular once again. Levon Helm is a brilliant performer, and more than worth your time to listen to.

- Victor Gurbo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBuJB218UvU

At This Moment

This week, Miriam Harari and Jacob Victorine asked the Brooklyn College community:

Shoe hurling is one of the worst forms of insult in Arab culture. What is the worst insult (gesture or verbal) that you have ever received/experienced?


"I got the middle finger after I cut somebody off who was going too slow."
- Dangerous Driver

"Somebody once told me in eighth grade that I was a midget who belonged in a circus. I guess they didn't get the memo that good things come in small packages...I like being short!"
- Miss Petite-and-Proud

"My professor claimed I repeated myself in a paper...this isn't the worst insult really, but it's the latest."
- Creative Writing Student

"That I was fake religious. And that I am a fake person. That killed me. That beat fat, ugly, stupid, selfish, and a bitch."
- True-religion girl

"That I was not cut out to be a counselor in camp. Excuse me, I have five younger siblings, I think I know my way around kids."
- Permanent Babysitter

“I find ‘the C word’ one of the most insulting and derogatory insults in the English language. Although it's never been used on me, it's misogynistic, crude, and holds so much abusive violence in so few letters. If anyone ever called me that I'd probably snap!

Damn, and the worst thing I had was someone calling me "Monkey Arms" in 7th grade ha-ha!”
-Christina Squitieri


“Well. Once when I was in Morocco, a little translation error culminated in a young hood spitting a hefty phlegm wad in my face, pushing me into the side of a dumpster, and screaming ‘we are not animals here like we are over there you Spanish bitch!’ It's an interesting story that leads up to that one...

Although: That's probably second to when a man who I was sleeping with told me (OVER FACEBOOK) that, though they aren't interested in being emotionally available to me, they'd ‘love to see me casually from time to time.’ Burn.

There are probably others, those just come to mind most readily.

Oh! In Spain, Ari and I were sitting at an outdoor cafe drinking brandy-spiked espresso, when a large, sweaty man came over and started beating off next to Ari's ear and said ‘Dame viente euro!’ (Give me 20 bucks!).

A few weeks later, when I disallowed a crazy Algerian to rip us off, he leaped up and motioned to hit me, grabbed my didgeridoo, and screamed (in broken Spanish) ‘You are of the dickhead! And also whore!’”
-Ingrid Lisudóttir Feeney


“Aside from having a stranger with a pit bull jack off near my ear, I think the most insulted I have ever been was when a drunken tourist told me I ‘looked like Sarah Jessica Parker...and not in a good way!’”
-Ariana Costakes


“All throughout middle school and through the beginnings of high school, my mother would walk up to me while I was looking in the mirror, fixing my hair or something, and say, ‘You are pretty, but you would look so much prettier if you got a nose job.’ I used to think that my face wasn't even good enough for my own mother.”
-Margalit Haber

“No one has ever insulted me and lived to tell the tale. Although someone did call me fat once. So I called him a cunt. And that was the end of that one.”
-Nicole Lebenson

Greetings!

Shopping the other day in SOHO, I was distressed when after arguing with a salesperson at the Nike ID studio for nearly twenty minutes, he refused to emblazon my future baby’s forehead with a birthmark in the shape of a “swoosh.” He told me they weren’t branding babies with Nike birthmarks until 2010. Now, my question is, what’s the point of designing your baby at the Nike ID studio, if you can’t even show off that your baby was produced there?

As far-fetched as this alternate reality I’ve concocted seems, how far is it really? If we are theoretically only a year away from being able to have genetically designed babies, how far away are we from having designer babies? We are already a brand-obsessed society, with people flaunting their newest “G print” Gucci scarf or “LV” Louis Vuitton sweater. Boxers have been known to temporarily tattoo advertisements across their backs during bouts in order to make a little extra promotional cash; there are even people who permanently tattoo their bodies with the Nike “swoosh” or Jordan Brand “Jumpman.” What’s keeping us from marking our babies with the logos of our favorite brands from even before their birth?

Although baby branding could solve our economic woes—assuming corporations would pay participating parents large sums of money in order to use their babies’ bodies as mini-billboards—the moral price is uncountable. Speaking of money, it seems one of the major setbacks of American capitalism is that we always want more. Everything has to be bigger, faster, stronger, better. Why can’t it ever just be? Maybe the problem isn’t that we don’t have enough: our cars aren’t fast enough, our mansions aren’t big enough, and our babies aren’t blonde enough. Maybe it’s that we aren’t content enough with what we have.

This week, I invite everyone to try being content with what you have. Including this blog.

-Jacob Victorine

Boylan Brief

Twenty-First Time's a Charm?

Sue Edwards had been complaining of stomach problems for over a year. Every time she went to the doctor she was told it was due to a sinus infection. Her doctor also blamed her weight for her health issues, claiming that obesity might be the cause of her illnesses. Thankfully, a med-student asked to examine the woman and immediately felt a lump in her abdomen and sent her to the hospital. The mass (so large it didn’t fit onto the scan) was removed and although it turned out to be cancerous, after four and a half months of chemotherapy, she is in remission.

Sue’s symptoms were peculiar and go to show why ovarian cancer is known as the “silent killer.” Not only does it take a while for symptoms to even occur, but when they do come on they are usually common: vomiting, nausea and fevers. Many people don’t realize that it could be something serious. But it does not mean a death sentence. Making sure to get annual exams is crucial for fighting ovarian cancer, with an almost 90% success rate if caught early enough.

This story goes to show that, as patients, we’re responsible for our health. If you feel like something is wrong, get it checked out. Why wait to get worse? But if you ever find your complaints to your doctor falling on deaf ears, it may be time to get a second opinion.

-Meaghan Keeler

Source: http://news.aol.com/health/article/missed-diagnosis/369553



Beautiful Babies Are Within Your Reach

After centuries of being stuck with whatever comes out of the womb, parents can finally genetically alter the looks of their children. Dr. Jeff Steinberg thinks it's possible for one of these model babies to be born by next year. The idea has caused controversy, since originally this was a procedure to reduce the risks of inherited diseases. As important as that may be, people are more excited about the possibility of having children with blonde hair and blue eyes. Quickly this has become like creating video game characters. Will people be going into these offices asking for Brad Pitt babies? Or will it be like ordering at a restaurant? I'll take a kid with Megan Fox eyes, Kate Beckinsale hair, Angelina Jolie lips, Scarlet Johansson nose, and Jack Nicholson eyebrows.

The phrase "You look like your mother," may eventually cease to exist. Are people truly okay with the idea of having children that have no resemblance to them at all?

Sources:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7918296.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7918296.stm

-Joe Pugliesi