Meth offender registries: What a fucking great idea

Helen

Yesterday was the 90th anniversary of the Black Tom explosion, which was a German-led act of sabotage on a New Jersey munitions plant. Anyhow, you can read a few summations of what happened here and here. (It is, however, one of those classic shrouded-in-mystery events, so there isn't a lot out there. A book about the saboteurs was recently released, though I haven't read it.) I'm the last person who should be giving any history lessons. No matter--I am not here to talk about the exacts. In fact, one of the most nebulous aspects of the Black Tom explosion is that there seems to be no agreed-upon casualty count. Various sources put it at anywhere from seven to 12, though at the time it happened, this paper claimed 200 people had died. (Why I'm mentioning this will all be clear in a bit.)

So, this is my great-grandmother Helen. By the time I was born, she was a stooped, wizened little thing who relished insulting everyone in my family and insisted on eating only ham and Pepsi at every meal. I suppose you don't outlive three husbands by being easygoing.

Helen grew up in Red Hook, Brooklyn. As teenagers, she and her sister passed their summers by swimming in the Erie Basin every day. They were both known as such expert swimmers that a movie director paid Helen's sister (whose name I can't remember) five dollars to do a swan dive off of the bow of a very tall ship--I think it was like a 30-foot jump--for a scene in a movie. (Her mother beat the hell out of her when she got home that night--I guess word spread quickly in Red Hook.)

The Black Tom explosion happened in the early morning of July 30. If my great-grandmother is to be believed (and that's debatable: you don't outlive three husbands by telling the truth, either), later that morning, she and her sister went down to Erie Basin, which was close enough to Black Tom that debris from the explosion was floating everywhere.

The story goes that she and her sister helped the police by swimming out into the water and bringing in the bodies. I'm not even sure if they were entire bodies or just pieces. Then again, I'm not even sure there were any.

I'm not old enough to have heard it firsthand, and so I've been told multifarious versions by my father and my aunt, both of whom are either too senile or too drunk to remember what really happened. The tale of my grandmother the body recovery scout has taken on the patina of myth. When I finally got around to actually researching the Black Tom Explosion for this post, I was terribly disappointed.* Seven freakin' people? All those years, she must've been lying.

Still, I like the story.
*I like my death tolls horrific.

Gorillas may be extinct by 2050

All hands brace for a rift in the space-time continuum: An entrant in Radosh's New Yorker Anti- Caption Contest is a finalist in the real deal

Which one of them is Jeremy?

Is it just me, or does this photo remind you of this?

(Bonus question: Is it just me or is Xeni more blog-hot than real-hot?)(And am I a year-and-a-half behind the curve on that observation? What is this Boing Boing you speak of, sir?)

Vinyl Mine has The Pontiac Brothers

I had no idea the platypus was venemous

Is anyone going to the Warriors screening on Coney Island next week? I can't decide

The Sadies - "In Concert, Vol. 1"

Ah, The Sadies. Canada’s favorite sons (Mike Belitsky on drums, Sean Dean on bass, Dallas Good on vocals and guitar, and his brother Travis on guitar, vocals, and fiddle) have come back once again to remind America of her musical heritage. Had Gram Parsons joined The Ventures rather than The Byrds, we might have heard proto-Sadies. As it is, we had to wait. It was worth it.

How to assemble the Ghetto Big Mac (Apropos of nothing: I'm pretty sure this is the same McD's I used to stumble to drunkenly late at night) [Via]

Fuck you, Christopher Morris, whoever you are

Grant Barrett

Yes folks, the return of the interview. I am delighted to present Grant Barrett, who is the project editor of the Historical Dictionary of American Slang for Oxford University Press during the day and editor of the Double-Tongued Word Wrester Dictionary in his free time. He occasionally writes and broadcasts about words, dictionaries, and language. The Official Dictionary of Unofficial English is his second book.

Cold case squad given a kick in the ass

[this is good]

Summer is halfway over, sorta, and this being the busiest time of the year for me work-wise, I have neither the time nor the werewithal to come up with anything snappy to say. I have the following items that I've collected on cocktail napkins, wadded up in my pocket, and saved for a time such as this.

First of all, I'd like to thank not one, but TWO friends, for sending this article* to me, with the subject line "Thought you'd find this interesting." It speaks volumes that when a goth stripper in Philly gets arrested for having body parts in her house, you all think of me.
My favorite line is the following:

"And Hott 22 does not knowingly hire mass murderers."

Two fine performances, both by cars: Shafer on the best NYT writers

A proofreading addiction? What, like there aren't any good addictions left or something?

Tomorrow Monday morning, 10 am, City Hall: The City Council's first meeting on the blackouts. Be there be there be there! And bring your brickbats

Cigarettes could slash blood-alcohol levels, making smokers drink more [Via]

Markgraf said Taddonio's sleeping disorder is not a condition that needs to be reported to the [DMV], nor would it restrict his driving... except for when, you know, he mows two girls down with HIS HUMMER

A homeless man turns in 21K worth of savings bonds and is rewarded with the princely sum of 100 whole dollars! Fuck you, humanity

Titty-squeezin' time

From what I have gleaned, apparently there comes a point in time at which all female journalists of a particular mien must write about visiting the Town Shop on the Upper West Side. Although I am no journo, I am no longer content to let Alex Kuczynzki have all that fun writing about shaking her cans. And also I'm short on material, so here goes.

Comets On Fire - "Avatar"

When last we’d heard from Comets On Fire, they’d sort of painted themselves into a corner. Their 2004 release, The Blue Cathedral, pretty much destroyed all matter in the universe, down to the sub-atomic level. Where do you go from there? Post-annihilation, what’s left for an encore?

So it is that with the new album, Avatar, the Comets have backed off a bit on the whole cosmic annihilation thing, aiming instead for devastation on a slightly smaller scale – namely, the melting of individual brains. Or, if we leave out the hyperbole, what we have here is a slightly less intense (and therefore more accessible) experience.

Regarding this whole Amy Sohn vs. Mr. Nice Guy childcare foofaraw, I have this to say: I wish everyone in Park Slope would quit overpopulating the city with their poorly behaved "gifted" children and--in the words of local asshole Neal Pollack himself--shut the fuck up already

Everyone, say hello to Günther [Thanks N]

Even a bad taco is better than no taco

15 years later, the mystery of "Baby Hope" remains unsolved

I smell a sequel to Grizzly Man

Handy Latin Phrases

Hed of the week: Bush acknowledges racism still exists

Keep the glove

It's a fine fucking howdoyoudo when the highlight of your day is an intravaginal sonogram to check and make sure there are NO TUMORS UP IN THIS PIECE. The rest of my Wednesday skittered downhill from there, mostly.

I like the technicians at NY Radiology. They're plucky ladies of a certain age who are as adept as geishas at making small talk while they penetrate you with an implement that--who are we kidding--resembles a Steely Dan. (Waaaaay better than this place, where they make you feel bad about not breeding.)

In my visits there, the techs and I have variously discussed real estate, the Adirondacks, the heat (naturally), and, yesterday, the fantastic new paper robes.

Technically, I'm not sure what kind of material the robes are made from. It's some sort of fiber, like the kind of stuff the more tony boutiques make their shopping bags out of. Robin's egg blue, with very sturdy seams, and best of all, they have a brilliant shape that ensures total modesty: After you put your arms through each hole, you pull a flap of material around and put your right arm through YET ANOTHER HOLE, which keeps the front of the gown totally closed. There's no chance whatsoever of flashing anyone. This is award-winning design. The robes put to shame those metal flippers that allow amputees to run marathons.

So I mentioned to the technician that I really liked the new robe, that it was quite an improvement on the old ones. So sturdy, so accomodating.

"Oh, I know. They're just great. Why don't you take it home? You could reuse it when you need to dye your hair or something."

"Do people really do that? Take their robes home?"

"Sure, why not?" And with that, she slipped a condom on the wand and handed it to me. Springsteen sang "Dancing in the Dark" through a speaker in the ceiling. It was very reminiscent of high school, except I wasn't in the backseat of a 1978 Plymouth Valiant.

A half-hour later, after being thoroughly probed, I was in the changing room trying to decide what to do with the robe. The part of me that obsessively saves grocery bags thought She's right, this could come in handy. The pragmatic part of me debated whether going to a business meeting (at which someone said to me, in all hostile seriousness, "Stop bullshitting me." What am I, a hedge fund manager?) with a disposable examination gown in my purse was such a hot idea. Finally, the neurotic part of me that worries about hurting complete strangers' feelings decided that I should go ahead and take the robe so as not to make the tech think that I didn't like her suggestion.

And now, my medical fetish collection nears completion.

I, too, would like an ice cream truck at my funeral, but it must play the Ghetto Ice Cream Truck song

Your penis is perfect [Thanks C]

RIP Chico (the Monkey, of course)

Something I Learned Today has Born Against! Rorschach! BURN!!! What more could an NYHC kid want?

Next cocksucker in line: A trip to the venerable Wiener's Circle

Jenny and Peter have a new installment of the Shut-In Detectives up at McSweeney's

Dash of Bitters has a limoncello recipe, a perfect do-it-yourself project for those of us who don't have maggots in our kitchen

Welcome to Queens, Borough of Douchebags Hellbent on Frying the Grid

The dead only quickly decay

Historically, I am accustomed to living in squalor. (Well, relative squalor. Crackheads underneath the porch and cockroach infestations? No problem. Vomit in the stairwell?* Yes indeedy. Shitting in a bucket? Hmm. Maybe check back this time next year.) In more recent times, though, I've been fortunate to live in what could strictly be defined as decrepitude.

Where does Lorrie Moore get her ideas, anyway? [Via]

Get me this

Mangiare e parlare

Saturday, while other folks sweated off half their body weight at the Siren Festival in Coney Island, I spent the afternoon tying one on in the deserted neighborhood of Williamsburg. Normally, the WB is (even more) intolerable on the weekends, but yesterday you could've rolled a bowling ball down the middle of Bedford without hitting anyone (unfortunately). Apparently it was so surprising that anyone wouldn't be at the Siren Festival that when we walked into The Southside Lounge for MORE ALCOHOL (and incidentally, they have happy hour even on the weekends at the Southside Lounge; this is both awesome and frightening) the bartender looked at us and said, "Hey, why aren't you guys at Siren?"

"Why, we're here in Williamsburg to loot, of course. Nobody's around," I replied. Her laugh implied that she wasn't sure if she'd just heard a joke or not, which is a common problem with people from the West Coast.

However, I'm not here to talk about my binge drinking. (Yet.) I am here to talk about the food in Rome.

Brilliant: Keep 100 cats in your house to mask the smell of your mother's rotting corpse

What better way to honor your son's death than by painting a memorial on your Hummer? [Via]

Gen Y turns to infertility treatments, and I continue to die a little inside

Blue Ridge Gazette has a post about the dulcimer and the limberjack

Neato: Tiny chip converts paraplegic's thought into action

Will global warming wipe out California's wines? I shudder to think [Via]

There ain't shit on TV

Tonight a friend pointed me to a We Jam Econo DVD release party at The Delancey. I was...how you say...conflicted. Just as I was two years ago. I hate me some Delancey, and I swore the next time I entered its pseudohip doors it would be with Semtex strapped to my chest. So, I didn't go. Anyhow.

Speaking of pseudohipsterism, there's this (via), which is...troubling. Apparently he is the celebrity in residence in Williamsburg. He down to earth, he take a car service.

AAAAAND...Speaking of resident celebrities, here's a weird instance of synchronicity. (Though the story works better if you pretend that Sophie's is the Cherry Tavern, which it basically is.) Anyhow, it was a year and five days ago that I had drinks with Krucoff at the Cherry Tavern. So, as is my gift*, I managed to spot an erstwhile child celebrity passing by the bar. Anyhow, last night I was at Sophie's, another East Village underage drinking establishment, and who should walk in but the very same child celeb. Is it a sign?

Anyhow: Tomorrow, I swear, a rundown of all the food I et in Italia.

*This is my only gift, spotting small-time (no ::cough:: offense) celebs. I live in fear that I'll be on a game show and the host will select me and ask me what special talents I have and, rather than being able to demonstrate how I can dislocate both my shoulder blades or play "On the Trail of the Lonesome Pines" using my hand and my armpit, I'll have to say, Well, I'm good at spotting the first Becky from Roseanne.

Powells.com has a funny (duh) interview with Gary Shteyngart

If it's hard to grasp why disabled people need this space, WE SUGGEST: Go and break your fucking spine.

Huge repository of (mostly) 80s music videos

They really oughtta warn you about The Professor and the Madman

Thee Emergency - "Can You Dig It?" / Cansei de Ser Sexy - "CSS"

As an American – one born and raised in California, I might add – I have been beaten over the head with the idea that summertime is funtime, virtually from Day One. And as a kid it didn’t really take much to get me to buy into that idea, since summer meant being sprung from the drab purgatory of school into the Technicolor world of baseball, swimming, blowing shit up on the Fourth of July, and just generally screwing around. What’s not to like?

I'll tell you basically how to work it but will not demonstrate because launching pumpkins in Brooklyn is dangerouse. (I've learned in the worst way)

dressed for the h bomb has some sweet Nomeansno action

Won't you miss me? Couldn't you miss me at all? RIP Syd Barrett

Is it possible that the great apes are capable of communicating with us?

Tragedy is when I cut my finger

Oh my God. A while ago I thought I was having the worst day ever, but I am here today, hat in hand, to tell you that No, this is the worst day ever. Hung over, lost monthly Metrocard, unreal subway problems, and now they're JACKHAMMERING in front of my building. Fuck that with a brick.

And seriously, what the fuck was Zidane thinking?

OK, so in case you're interested, here are some more vacation photos. I haven't done much with them yet, but suffice it to say there is a lot of water, a lot of fish-eating, and a very old dead guy.

A HA HA HA HA HA: Fark.com members apparently opened their homes to other Fark.com members who were stranded after Hurricane Katrina. This makes their community seem beautiful and touching.

300 years' worth of complaints

Japanese ice cream

Mouse Pad Couch!

I dunno how I managed to miss this last year, but the WFMU Blog has an mp3 of my personal favorite ice cream truck jingle: Ghetto Ice Cream Truck Song

World Cup Death Watch: 63 and rising

From the Dept. of Quelle Fucking Surprise: Hate Groups Infiltrate the Military

I have visited a foreign country for two weeks and, as such, am now an expert on said country

Jeez. Being back isn't nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. It seems that as soon as we had finally begun adjusting to the bizarro world that is Roman day-to-day living, N and I had to board a plane peopled by the elders of an entire hilltown, who--though not rude, except for that one woman who resisted getting out of the aisle to allow the drink cart by, for which I'm fairly certain she was court martialed when we landed--treated the flight as though they were attending a 9-hour hootenanny. You pays your money and you takes your chances with budget airlines.

"This really wasn't what we came to see."

Krucoff interviews Gary Shteyngart

Wednesday's dose of batshit insane, Memphis style

Jim shows us Rupert Murdoch's MySpace page

'Collyers' Mansion' Is Code for Firefighters' Nightmare

Most useful World Cup report I've seen [Via]

Like Sharon Stone, I'm making my comeback and you should all feel indifferent

Hiya kids, hiya hiya.

So, Italy was great, duh. I have lots and lots of boring travelogues to share, but first I have to finish unpacking my suitcase--it's simply crammed with all my J. Peterman special nonwrinkling traveling smocks--and get settled in to work. Hello, email inbox! Hello, vitriolic missives from clients? Heh, yeah, I guess I did phone it in those last few weeks before I left.

Before I do anything else, though, I want to offer a big, big thanks to bmarkey for handling both the left- and right-hand sides of #1HS while I was away. Not only did he manage two record reviews, he also offered up a three-part insider's guide to Seattle, dispelling once and for all that it's a rainy city full of faux-nice armchair liberals who drink coffee and throw fish from tall pointy buildings. Thank you, bmarkey!

I'm sure you're all itching to hear about our Roman Holiday, but until I get my act together, you'll have to satiate your yearnings by perusing the first half of our vacation photos.

--We arrive and watch the World Cup

--We go to the market

--We do some touristy things and then come home to watch the World Cup

--We head to Abruzzo to watch the World Cup and witness frightening Italian traditions and hang out at the docks

More to come.

Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle

Sorry this is later than promised, although I’m not delusional enough to think that anyone’s been waiting with bated breath for the stirring conclusion. At any rate, let’s see if we can wrap this thing up today, since Dana should be back sometime this week.