Of Bibles and Beck.

“Have you seen their posters outside? Apparently I’m the head of the Tea Party,”

Glenn Beck attempted to humanize himself with his audience by joking and making small talk before the cameras sta

rting rolling. He was referring to the large anti-Fox News protest in the front of the building where his studio was located. The cameras in the studio were preparing for a taping of his political talk show. For a television studio, this one was fairly small. The audience only numbered to 25 people. The ages of these studio audience members however mostly ranged from 35 to 65. There were blonde women in long fur coats, middle aged men in business suits, and the occasional tee shirt and jeans clad man holding up a Glenn Beck book in hopes of having it signed by the author himself.

Beck was wearing a purple sweater with a purple plaid button-down shirt stuffed inside. His outfit gave a more casual and relaxed feel in contrast to the serious topic.

He grabbed a Ziploc bag filled with nuts and dried fruits from the center table in the studio. “I’m a vegan now. If you don’t know what that means, it means that I don’t eat any animal products now. No milk, no dairy, no meat. Nothing.” There were several groans and gasps heard around the room. The blonde women in fur coats made snarky jokes about how Beck was joining the dark side.

“I like calling it the “sticks” diet. My diet mainly consists of dirt and sand now. And sometimes a few rocks,” he said sarcastically.

The episode focused on talking about current issues through a religious prism and how to make sense of it all among religious communities. It was going to air that Friday on Fox News. There was a table set up in the front with four chairs. Four guests arrived: David Barton, Rabbi Daniel Lapin, Rev. James Robinson, and Dave Roever, all politically conservative religious figures.

During the taping, the guests compared the divorce and abortion rates between Christians and Atheists in the United States, citing that the divorce rates were lower for atheists. Most of the audience gasped, followed by a discussion of how Christians need to step it up and act practice their faith better. If Atheists, unbound by morals according to this audience, were acting “more Christian” than actual Christians, there was definitely evil lurking about in society.

The pious audience clapped resoundingly, full of passion and support for those comments. There was one audience member however who did not clap with everyone else. The short brunette in the back corner did not agree with statements. She didn’t agree with most of the statements of the evening in fact. She was there to simply observe. Ashley, a self-proclaimed Democrat, decided to go to a taping of the controversial show out of curiosity. She always made fun of right-wing talking heads and even went to the Rally to Restore Sanity hosted by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. The taping somewhat changed her perceptions towards the host. She saw him in a more humanized light, although she disagreed with most of his passionate statements regarding the presence of religion in the government.

She did enjoy seeing his chalkboard in person however.

Rainy Day (Talese)

Joe was an angry, impatient man who believed that he would one day succeed in the business world and make the six figure salery he did four years ago. He was twenty-six years old when he was laid off from his job in Michigan and had to move back in with his parents in Flushing, New York.

The temporary situation eventually lasted a year, then two, then four. It was 2010 when he finally heard back from a potential employer who first suggested they meet at a job fair. After passing the initial interview Joe was invited to the company headquarters the following Monday where he'd he questioned again. He was prepared with a freshly printed resume in an aqua folder he borrowed from his girlfriend after sleeping over the night before. The black Duane Reade umbrella he held up with his left hand was his own and while the rain drops were few at first, they began to multiply at an alarming rate as the time inched closer to 8am. The bottom of his black suit jacket with thin gray stripes flapped against his sides as he tucked the folder under his left arm and stuck his right hand out from under the umbrella.

Yellow cabs drove by, thier windshield wipers furiously waving from side to side. Joe kept his arm extended above his shoulder despite how none of the numbers above the cabs were lit. Dark circles ranging from dime to near quarter sizes appeared on his suit and while the damp bottoms of his pants clung on to his leather shoes he imagined using the weather as an excuse for being late. Finally, a cab pulled over and stopped. And while he wondered why the car didn't park closer, a woman wearing a beige trench coat walked out from between two parked cars and pulled the cab door open.

Joe clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the umbrella handle but before he could say anything the woman turned around, "Want to share a cab?"

Talese Inspired Post

David clenched his left ear as another snowball whizzed past his head. “I’m concussed!” he yelled as Thomas packed another snowball from the fresh snow that had fallen the night before. Their flight to Norfolk, Virginia wasn’t leaving for another three hours, and instead of waiting in a small dimly lit airport terminal with over priced sandwiches and tacky merchandise for sale, they spent their last few hours of freedom roaming the desolate streets of Brooklyn on this Sunday night in February.

David scraped snow off the windshield of a rusted red minivan and hurled the densely compacted snowball at Thomas. Thomas ducked and the snowball broke into tiny parts as it passed through a chain link fence of the neighborhood park. Thomas had fast reflexes, quicker than David’s. He was a good aim too. When he was in high school in Seattle, he had been expelled for shooting an air soft gun on school grounds. A stray pellet found its target—an unassuming 9 ^th grade boy with thick-rimmed glasses he remembered.

David was an easy target coming up at 6’3. He was large, robust, and towered over the much shorter Thomas easily. However, despite his height, he had an agility that belonged to a much smaller petite man. David pulled out from his pocket a headband his brother had knitted for him and pulled it snug over his ears.

Both were contemplating the flight back to Virginia and the countless hours they would soon be logging running miles at the crack of dawn. Thomas longed for home and his mother’s experimental cooking—a southern inspired recipe of mac and cheese one week, and a kale salad with cannellini beans and Parmesan cheese the next—while David eagerly awaited the next challenge before him. He would begin his training as a rescue swimmer in the following weeks, a task that inspired and excited him. However, after Virginia neither friend knew when they would see each other again.

A Pole Vaulting Champion

Dean Hefnawy was often times told that he was exceptionally tall for his age. Standing at 6’4” he towered over his classmates, let alone his family members. Like a horse, he was built lean and muscular, and he had the agility and speed to boot. His sister, Ashley, had instilled in his mind from a young age that he would make an excellent trackie, because of his long legs and lanky build. Having never really proven himself particularly talented in any other sport, the idea of track and field appealed to him as a freshman in high school. Little did he know on his first day of track, joking around with his friends, not taking anything seriously and avoiding the haze of the upperclassmen, that he would eventually become a statewide track star.

Dean sits on the cushiony field house floor of Hillhouse High School for the Connecticut Track and Field State Opens. The date is February 19^th, 2011, and this is the second and final State track meet, for only the best of the best. Last week, at the first state meet, he ranked number one in the state. On this day, the college size field house holds just under its maximum capacity of fans and sport-watchers, and the sounds of cheering, shouting and coaching ring all around Dean, though his mind blocks it out. For him, nothing but silence rings in his ears as he screws in spikes for his track shoes. His shoes, red with black and silver lines on the sides and front, have undergone far too much usage, and now hug his feet in hopes that this will be the last time he uses them for a while. They need a break, and so does he. As he finishes winding the spikes into his shoes, he raises himself up to find his vaulting pole, which stands at about 14 feet, and weighs 160 pounds. It has served as a pleasant companion for the past couple of months, for he never stays with the same pole for more than an entire track season.

His mind, normally restless and full of mysterious thought unknown to even those closest to him, remains completely clear with only one goal in mind today: jump 13 feet. It is not an unreasonable goal, seeing as to how he jumped 12’6” the previous week, but to jump 13’ is something that takes much focus and skill. It takes Dean a long time to explain to others how difficult it is to pole vault, for it doesn’t only require physicality and accuracy, but mental strength. To vault oneself ten plus feet into the air is a miraculous act in that of itself, and the thought of that alone gives average people night terrors. For Dean, however, it is merely a question of how far he can push himself to go even higher.

As he completes the preparation of his shoes, he takes off his warm-up FCIAC t-shirt, (Fairfield County Interscholastic Athletic Conference) and sweatpants, to unveil his uniform. The block letter, “S” for Staples High School, stands out against the dark blue of his jersey. Those who watch him have come to know that when his shirt comes off, he is ready to pole vault. The pole goes into the firm grasp of his hands and he begins to go through the motions of stretching with the pole. He takes a few lunges backwards, holding the pole out in front of him, ready to stab the ground on which he will run. On the fourth and final backward lunge, he dashes off in a full on sprint towards the destination of where the pole will eventually meet the ground, until it does. Once the pole is planted into the ground, Dean bends it and uses the bend to spring him over the marker, which stands at 12’6”. His form stays perfect the entire time, for one single flaw will cost him. Once his head and arms are over the mark, his legs are sure to follow in sequence. After he has cleared the mark, he falls to the safety of the mat, diving feet first into the blue of the cushion, and a look of relief washes over his face.

In the Style of Talese; Growing Up Woodstock

Born in Oregon in 1959, Jeanne spent the first few years of her life traveling around the United States with her family. Her father worked for the then-budding IBM computer company, which accounted for their nomadic lifestyle. Eventually, when Jeanne was about four, the family settled in Woodstock, New York, a rural town that would later become famous for the 1969 hippie music festival that took place there. Jeanne, being but ten years old, wasn’t old enough to attend the festival. But in the years that followed she would become a child of the hippie movement, experimenting freely with drugs and sex, and rebelling against her conservative parents in ways that shocked and angered them.
Her mother and father were both from the same small town in Vermont. They were, by birth, country folk. Speaking with slight redneck accents, they raised their children harshly; Richard would often bring out his belt when the kids misbehaved, while Caroline was a silent alcoholic. The four children, of which Jeanne was the second-born, were hardened by their parents child-rearing methods. They turned against one another—it was each child for himself.
Woodstock, meanwhile, was bursting with the youthful hippie movement. It was a town full of long-haired youths, listening to rock and roll, taking psychedelic drugs, and professing a love for freedom and individuality that contrasted sharply with their parents’ generation. Jeanne often clashed with her elders; she was banned from a girlfriend’s house after she lashed out at the father for being a racist, and she tested her own father’s racism when she tried to go to the prom with a young black man from school.
Jeanne hated growing up in “the sticks,” full of close-minded rednecks as it was, and as she spent high school being unmercifully punished by her wrathful father for her rebellious behavior, she knew she would eventually have to get out of that town.

The 90th Birthday Party

Evelyn was already a stresscase. She was caught up in party-planning, even though it wasn’t really her job. A veritable Mrs. Dalloway, she seemed concerned about being concerned with details of such frivolity—except, this party was not an insignificant event. It was perhaps the most momentous celebration of her boss’s life—and she had forgotten to order a birthday cake.

Harold Burson was turning 90 years old, and Evelyn, his very devoted and competent assistant, had been put in charge of organizing the first of two celebrations for her boss, the founder of the largest public relations company in the world. This first party, closer to his actual birthday, was to be a “small” lunch (for 60 guests) in the private room at the uptown New York restaurant Park Avenue Winter. To attend was his immediate family, longtime colleagues from Burson-Marsteller, and closest friends (The “big” party, with which Evelyn was not burdened, was to take place one month later, and that would be a cocktail soiree for 500).

At 5:30 the night before the lunch, Mr. Burson’s grandson sent an email to Evelyn that may have made her skin crawl. “There better be a birthday cake tomorrow…” it read, and she panicked. Well, there was not, as Evelyn had been gathering up the impromptu guest list the days before the party trying to extract RSVPs from the octogenarian and nonagenarian invitees, confirming the private room at the restaurant, and orchestrating car rides for the Burson family to be transported from Mr. Burson’s Scarsdale residence to the restaurant, then to his Lincoln Center apartment, and then to JFK.

Mr. Burson’s grandson remained calm. He figured that Grandpa really didn’t care about birthday candles and those sorts of things, and that it would most likely be a great lunch. The restaurant probably had a fancy dessert lined up.

As the grandson walked in to Park Avenue Winter on the morning of February 13, he froze. Not as in temperature (he kept warm in a fabulous Prada mohair vest), but he realized that while he remembered to bring the birthday card for Grandpa and the Parker fountain pen he brought for a gift, he forgot his camera, and there was no photographer planned for the first party. It turned out, so did every family member who walked in the door—no camera, just BlackBerries.

The grandson felt horrible for about 20 minutes. He was relieved when Evelyn walked in (late, naturally) with her husband behind her, carrying a huge digital camera, fancy lens, and big smile.

Mr. Tofthagen

Christ the King School is a small Catholic elementary school in South Bend, Indiana- a faded industrial town nestled in the southern bend of the St. Joseph River. The town, settled by Polish and Irish Catholics, has never lost it's devotion, and many of its citizens still frequent Sunday mass, although only a select few can afford to send their children to a private religious school. Christ the King is a large domed building located off Route 933- its incongruous surroundings include an empty lot where a shopping center once stood and a cavernous Walgreen’s store, whose sign casts a red glow onto the street twenty four hours a day. Not much has changed in South Bend since the factories shut down, and that Friday began the same as any other day for Christ the King students. Children climbed from their parent's cars, and lined up outside the glass doors at the front of the building, waiting for the bell to ring. But there was a crackle in the air, a tension that only grew as the day went on. The teachers seemed distracted and flustered. Mr. Tofthagen was conspicuously still absent.

A tall, lanky man whose shoulder length hair suggested a disciple more than a hippie, Tofthagen was perhaps the most beloved teacher Christ the King had seen in many years. He has an infectious geniality, a way of putting anyone at ease. Tofthagen was something the students had never dreamed existed- a 'cool' teacher. He taught history and science, but he also taught Karate in the gym after school. If you were having a problem, you could come talk to Mr. Tofthagen after class. The year before, he'd won the Golden Apple teaching award, nominated by students and parents. But Mr. Tofthagen had been gone since June. A few days before summer break began, Tofthagen walked into his class and announced, "I can't tell you why I'm leaving, but I love you all," and his desk was cleaned out by the end of the day.

His mysterious departure was a blow to the students, and they weren't adjusting well. The principal called a staff meeting on how to deal with this delicate situation. No one wanted to be the one to announce it. The night before, the police discovered Mr. Tofthagen's body in a ravine off of Mayflower Road and 23, dangling from a tree. He had been dead for two days. Tofthagen had cut his wrists, and when that failed he hung himself with a garden hose. No one had to wonder why he killed himself- those who hadn't heard read it in the paper that morning. One of the girls making allegations against him described Tofthagen as "an affectionate, friendly teacher who encouraged girls who felt lonely to withdraw from their parents, then molested them." He often invited female students to his home for dinner, took them to the beach, even on a trip to Florida where he allegedly had sex with two of his eighth grade students in a tent. "I'm not saying he's innocent, but who can say he's guilty?...Suicide does not make him guilty. He was no ordinary teacher. He was THE teacher," Maureen Mattheos told the local paper. She felt that Tofthagen had helped her shy son come out of his shell. "I don't know why this could happen to such a good man," added Angie Battista, another parent of one of Tofthagen's former students.

Several parents publicly accused the girls of being liars, but the investigation went on all the same. A few months passed. And just like that, it was as if Mr. Tofthagen did not exist. He was never mentioned again in public by teachers or the principal. There were no follow-up stories printed in the newspaper. An obituary ran in the South Bend Tribune titled “Tofthagen is remembered as ‘a magician at teaching’”. Even years later, the mention of his name to the head of the records department at Christ the King School brings a cold chill that one can feel through a telephone. “A Mr. Tofthagen worked here, yes. His first name was James. He won a teaching award in 1992. That’s all the information I have.”

Capote-ish story.

I remember the first time I came up close and personal with death. I was eight years old and my mother's boyfriend at the time had decided to kill himself in the bathtub. It should have been a scary and traumatizing experience and I'm sure deep down somewhere it was, but I was probably more relieved than anything. Seeing his body lying there in the bath tub, bloody and lifeless signified an end to the roller coaster ride we had been in since my parents broke up. I didn't know much about Lawrence when he moved in with my mother and I. It wasn't a complete shock when my parents broke up. They had been having problems for a while when my father abruptly moved out. Lawrence moved in shortly after and life resumed as it always had. Only it didn't because they fought a lot too. Lawrence was light skin and good looking. I was six so I don't recall exactly what my mother might have seen in him. Except for the fact that he was light skinned and good looking I can't imagine much else. My mother recalls him having horrible eating habits, especially while in public. Finger licking, mouth smacking, and bites of food inteected with bits of conversation were a mainstay at meals with Lawrence. It seemed nothing had changed except for the faces of the men. Eventually we got evicted from our apartment on the 18^th floor and had to move to a much smaller, not nearly as nice, two bedroom in the heart of Cleveland.

Lawrence lost his job shortly after that, or maybe before we moved. Which would actually explain the reason for the move. Things were tense in the house and arguing became an everyday occurrence once again. One day my mother picked me up after school and I asked her to take me to Revco, a drug store to buy something. I had ten dollars that was burning a hole in my pocket. After scanning the shelves for close to 15 minutes, I bought a little red dictionary and we headed home. She went straight to the bathroom and I made a beeline for the refrigerator. I wanted an oatmeal crème pie. Just as I was opening the package my mother began screaming for me to bring her the phone. I didn't understand the weight of her screaming until I finally brought her the phone. She was sitting on the toilet and he was lying in the bathtub. The water was red and his skin looked paler than ever laying in it. I went outside to sit on the steps, because I guess that's just what you do when your mother's boyfriend cuts open his wrists in your bathtub. When the ambulance came I was still sitting on the stairs with my head hanging down. The blonde EMT looked at me like he was at a lost for words and said, “Everything's going to be okay.”

Ashley at Fashion Week (Capote)

Ashley was running late, standing in her bedroom with damp hair wondering if four layers plus a coat would be enough.  It is Fashion Week in New York and her new internship at Milk Studios is causing a lot of anxiety.  Not because she is intimidated, but because she is already dreading the 20-degree weather that she will have to stand in for hours with a clipboard, wielding all the power.  

Ashley Palucci is a slim, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with an affinity for lifting tension in the room by making uncomfortable jokes and making herself seem more awkward than everyone else feels.  She is constantly described by friends as goofy and shy while simultaneously somehow outgoing.  

February 12, 2011 and Milk studios is buzzing with a cornucopia of important names.  Ashley stands at the door smiling sheepishly while being bribed to let thousands of important persons and their uninvited friends into the Vice Magazine party.  A woman walks up and says, "Hi my name is Susan Jones and I’m head of Public Relations at ALDO.  If you need ANYTHING at all, just email me with the style and where to ship them.  Anything just let me know.  Those are just a few of my friends standing right over there."  

"Wow, thanks that is So sweet of you!" says Ashley, as the woman glides through the door behind her.  Not until 15 minutes later does kind-hearted and timid Ashley realize that she is being goaded to let 6 girls in to the party that are clearly not on the list, and were extremely rude just moments before.  She waits 10 minutes and gives the group of Aldo-ites the go ahead.  

Alex the Great (Capote)

Alex the youngest of the Johnson family is an interesting girl. By day she is the general manager of a clothing store, by night a wild party girl trying to navigate her way through the Lower East Side bar scene. One could always tell when she had a “great night”. She would stroll into work Sunday afternoon looking as if she had just crawled from under a rock. Her red eyes hidden behind dark shades and long black hair extremely disheveled; it looked as if her fingers were her idea comb. She wore a white sleeveless button up shirt with a peter pan collar, tucked into black wool high waisted trousers, complete with shiny black American Apparel dancing shoes. She was about 5’6” medium build, with a large derrière that was very hard to miss.

Alex murmurs “Hey” as she rushed passed her employees, trying not to spill her venti sized Starbucks coffee. The employees burst into a quiet laughter as she walked out of sight. Alex sat in her office, one would think she was watching the cameras to see if her employees were slacking off, but the most know she is just trying to recover from the previous night. She emerges after two hours of “working” and makes her way to the sales floor.

“How are we doing with sales today, has it been busy?” she asked the cashier.

“It’s been pretty normal.” the cashier replied.

“I like your boots where’d you get those?”

“Urban Outfitters”

“Cute but you know you can’t wear them. Dov (Charney) is stopping by tomorrow, so everyone needs to be “on brand.” Alex said looking at herself in the mirror. She used her fingers to sweep her hair up into a bun; she made a face that can only be described as “Blue Steal”.

“Okay Alex.” The cashier replied rolling her eyes. Alex does not notice as she was too busy getting lost in her own eyes. She was not the most stylish or competent of the store managers. Most would even say or bet that she was missing a few brain cells but everyone loved her for the hot mess that she was.

Although she did make that cashier wait for Dov who decided last minute that he was going to show up at the store at one in the morning, which wasn’t cool.

Moana

Her name alone was intriguing. A perfect fit for a woman whom upon first glance one could tell had a story. Moana was what everyone in the hospital called her. A title her present state contradicted for the mythical Moana was a Polynesian sea-goddess, a beautiful inhumanly creation. Today Moana was not looking nor feeling her best. In fact she hadn’t been for many years. Due to her alcoholism Moanas kidneys were failing, causing her to be a regular at the Bay of Islands hospital in Kawakawa, New Zealand. She was a women of few words yet you could tell her mind was alert in the way she stared, the way her curved almond eyes followed the tiny white nurses shoes that danced like mice under the slit in the door. Her looks were deceiving, misleading others to believe she was older then her ripe age of 43. Her dark leathery skin fell victim to years of heavy drinking leaving her face swollen, and etched in a maze of thin wrinkles that framed her weathered features.

Sometimes Moana spoke. Mainly to reveal tales of her tribal life, explaining and tracing over her thick inked tattoos that cuffed her wrists and ankles. Or to relive the way she danced under the hot New Zealand sun, accompanied by endless cups of vodka on ice, strange men and the cool ocean waves.

Moanas most frequent visitor was a strange man named George. Strange in the way he came and went. Lost in the way he loved so strongly yet enabled Moanas helpless addiction. George always came at night. You knew he was approaching roughly two minutes prior to actually seeing him due to his noisy ensemble. You could hear his heavy combat boots and thick wad of keys collaborating in a rhythmic echo that sent signals down the hospital hall. Upon hearing this Moana would perk up, for her two loves were coming. George never arrived empty handed. On the edge of her bed he sat, a sturdy outline in the dark room, while Moanas neighbor, an 85 year old women named Celia quietly watched, as he slid the clear bottle into Moanas knee high boot. George and Moana never got intimate during these interactions. It was more business like; quick and to the point. This was mainly because they were not alone and partly because George was not Moanas top priority. Once she new the bottle was near the thought of twisting its seal and swigging down the room temperature beverage was the only thing that occupied her mind.

Despite Moanas destructive behavior, there was something in her exterior existence, her confident stride and tinted almond eyes that alluded to the fantasy of miraculous recovery. “This time when I get released will really be the last” She pleads to George. His head sinks as he averts his eyes to her boot, anchored to the tile floor with a bottle of vodka. He then peers back up, gazing into her big light eyes, whispering quiet nothings, he whimpers softly, turning his back on Moana he then adjusts his lengthy body to leave. George’s keys jingle and sway as he, taking his time, slowly lingers out of the dark room. He knows he has done wrong, yet he reassures himself she’s too far gone. Moana stares at the slit under the door following Georges heavy feet, she waits to make sure she is completely alone, before quenching her thirst. One step at a time, his heavy body moves. Three more faded beats, then George is gone.

In the style of Truman Capote.

Carefully Charles placed the large piece of stained wood on the blue floor of his small studio apartment. “I’m going to need to take those screws out,” he sighed to himself. Large, bald, with small eyes and typically a massive grin, he now appeared unenthusiastic but nowhere near discouraged. He bent down to kneel on the padded material that covered the ground in his home of twenty years. Charles had bought the flooring from a sporting goods store that usually provided the material to gymnastic studios and wrestling gyms. He had wanted a soft, spongy material, not the original concrete. The powder blue color had purposefully been chosen to match the hue of the walls. The result was sterility; the feeling of a doctor’s office.

As Charles began to unscrew the three bolts out of the pale wood surface using an electric drill, he stopped suddenly, tense. The piercing, mechanical sound left the room as immediately as it had arrived. There was a bell ringing towards the front of the apartment. It was the broken doorbell; quiet, metallic, barely audible. As the sporadic rhythm continued, it was clear the infiltrator was determined.

As soon as Charles realized what the sound was his breath came at a quicker pace, his heart beat a little faster. He got up soundlessly, easier than he seemed capable of. He tiptoed to the living room door and shut it, then walked to kitchen to shut the sliding wood door that opened into the entryway. Charles was an expert on evading people and exploiting the system. The afternoon of February 14^th would be no different.

Jonathan Ames and Mental Health

It was my first week on the newspaper. I was assigned to report for the Arts section. The Arts in Mind series was having an event that night. I saw the advertisement on the bulletin board in the computer lounge. It had a picture of the authorJonathan Ames surrounded by stacks of books, wearing his iconic newsboy cap of course. He was going to speak about the relationship between mental health and creativity.

It essentially said “come see this neurotic writer reminiscent of Woody Allen and Lenny Bruce.” I had seen him do stand up before; he was hosting a benefit show with comedians John Oliver and Eugene Mirman for 826NYC, a nonprofit writing organization for children and teens.

I arrived at the event at the Lang Cafe. It was completely filled with a variety of people. There were middle aged bearded men in sweater vests, older wealthy women in fur coats, young caucasian men in long sleeve jean shirts and dreadlocks, my roommate, and I. Loud jazz music was blaring in the background and the room was filled with conversation and laughter.

Joshua Wolf Shenk, the host, introduced the two guests. In addition Jonathan Ames, Dr. M. Gerard Fromm, a psychotherapist, was going to be speaking. The audience was told that “they’re going to have a public therapy session.” Ames and Fromm both stepped out to the front of the crowd. Ames had a brown corduroy jacket and blue beanie on as faced the the crowd with a cockeyed smile on his long and thin face, while Fromm wore a plain brown suit. The two gave a short introduction to the evening. There was a screen set up in the corner for a screening of “Bored to Death”, Ames’ HBO show about a depressed writer who offers unlicensed detective work via Craigslist.

The episode featured a psychotherapist dubbed the “Carl Jung of Brooklyn” and Jim Jarmusch riding in circles on a bicycle. After the episode, the audience was invited to ask the guests questions.

One woman approached the microphone set up in front of Ames and Fromm. The redheaded older woman wore blue sweatpants, a blue top, and a blue cardigan. She asked “Um, uh, do you, uh, ever feel like you’re, uh, sacrificing your creativity for your, ehm, sanity? Or uh, vice versa?”

Ames answered “Yeah, well, uh, I don’t worry about it too much.” Fromm then interjected, “I remember hearing a story about David Lynch. He went to visit a therapist. He asked the therapist if medication or therapy would alter his mind, and the therapist said he couldn’t guarantee anything. David Lynch never visited a therapist again”.

Another person went up to the microphone. An overly-eager middle aged man with glasses giggled and asked a relaxed Ames a question.

“HI! Ha ha ha! I notice that sex is very present in all of your work! Is there a reason for this? Are you trying to say something with all this sex in your work? HA!”

“..........uh, well, uh ,I guess. It’s a good place to examine where human beings are. I like to encourage confusion.”

Language

Two years ago, after twenty years of resistance, I finally gave into my parents' wish for me to visit China. It was June and I arrived in Beijing wearing black sweatpants, clearly unprepared for the 100 degree weather.

I was looking forward to the trip, partially because I was excited to speak my first language. My father couldn't speak fluent English, even after he became an American citizen, so we spoke Shanghainese at home. (Shanghainese is a dialect spoken in Shanghai. It's very different from Mandarin, despite some people's assumption that it's the "same thing.")

After changing into shorts in the the airport restroom, I boarded my second flight in 18 hours and headed for Shanghai. Both my parents were born and raised there so I had already felt a connection with the place even before I arrived. Maybe it was because of all the childhood memories my father shared or the framed pictures my mother kept on top of her dresser.

It was an hour past noon when I arrived in my final destination. There was a Burger King and KFC at the airport. It gave me the unsettling feeling that I haven't really left America. I remembered being younger and thinking how great it was that the fast food I'd come to know so well had reached the other side of the world. But seeing the large burger and soda sign above the escalator leading up to the streets of Shanghai made me wonder where the city my parents grew up in had gone.

My mother took me to a dim sum restaurant by the hotel for lunch. She said it was very different from what we were used to in New York. The waitress greeted us in Mandarin. I spoke back in Shanghainese. She looked confused until my mother explained I was from America. The waitress smiled, " Where-come to Chi-na." I didn't want to speak English, but for the rest of the trip I had no choice. The Mandarin I knew so well sounded foreign when spoken to me and the language I learned growing up had become extinct.

Normal Conversations

My mother, Nora Hefnawy lay nestled in a fort of blankets and pillows facing the television, where she watched America’s Funniest Home Videos. After what seemed to have been a long day at the bank where she works, all she wanted to do was watch people being launched off of bikes and into lakes, singing cats, and people falling down stairs, from the safety and warmth of her living room. She was, and remains to be aware of how much my father, Zach, hated this show.

“I get stressed watching disasters happen. And when I get stressed, I just want to go to sleep. So, why don’t I just go to sleep instead?” He said, one evening after passing through the living room.

“But Azooz, [his Egyptian nickname] it’s really great. Really, just watch a little, look at the baby screaming!” Overcome with hilarious joy, there seems to be nothing that can stop her enjoyment...

My sister, Erica, is everything that I am, but in a thirteen year old, lanky Afro-haired body. On the walls of her lofted bedroom are several posters of Justin Bieber. Every night before her 9:30 bedtime, she goes through what seems to be her entire closet, to find an outfit for the next day. However, on this particular night, one crucial part of her wardrobe is missing: her favorite “butter” tank-top. (The “butter” tank-top is just like any other, but it simply hugs the body in a skin-tight fashion, and has a soft texture much like spandex leggings.) This infuriates her, and while she paces the length of her tiny bedroom, she slowly begins to realize that the tank-top must still be in the laundry.

I said that Erica is everything that I am, but I forgot to mention that there’s one thing she has, which I don’t have: the prized Egyptian ability to scream like someone is being killed. Come to think of it, most of the inhabitants of my household have that uncanny ability to call on someones attention from two floors away. My mother, located on the ground floor of our house, my sister, on the top floor, (technically third floor) proceeded to have what we consider in our household to be a normal conversation between two entirely opposite floors.

“MOM!!!!!!!!!! WHERE IS MY BUTTER TANK-TOP?! I TOLD YOU IT WAS STILL CLEAN!!!!” She says.

“ERICA, I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU ASK ME ONE MORE TIME ABOUT YOUR BUTTER TANK-TOP...[some assumed swear word in incomprehensible Arabic] I WILL MAKE SURE YOU NEVER SEE IT AGAIN,” Mom responds.

“BUT MOM!!!!! I NEEEED IT MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE!!!” Erica says.

“YOU’RE SUCH A GRANDMA, YOU DON’T NEED IT YOU HAVE 5 MILLION OTHER TANK TOPS AND I DO ALL YOUR LAUNDRY ALL THE TIME, BE THANKFUL YA KHARA,” Mom responds.

“Khara” (pronounced, kha-rA) is the equivalent to our English translation of poop. It generally has a negative connotation, but in the Hefnawy household, it is thrown around like any other normal word.

My mother is not pleased as she continues to watch America’s Funniest Home Videos. She’s especially displeased because she’s been going on all these Arabic-English rants lately, about how no one appreciates her in the house. Erica, the antithesis of her argument, at 13-years old, thinks she’s older than everyone else, and doesn’t always see the good that my mother has done. One can only hope that in time, that will change, but for now, I continue to suffer through the screaming conversations that will take place between the two of them.

in the voice of Elif Batuman

It was only supposed to be a full time summer job, once I began school at the end of September, I would stop. I didn’t.

I had interned in a kitchen the summer before in the Meatpacking District in New York and had loved it. To look for similar work in London the following summer seemed to be an obvious ‘next step’. I had not been paid at my first restaurant, and I had had no responsibility at all- simple prep of vegetables and learning basic knife skills- so when I was called in for a trial period at Clarke’s restaurant in Notting Hill I was filled with excitement, disbelief and sudden terror.

The next day the head chef asked me to dice an onion. The result was an embarrassingly uneven pile of white that made me cry.

I officially started working at Clarke’s on the twenty second of July. I could hardly believe my luck at landing such a great second kitchen.

Clarke’s has been open now for twenty-six years, faithfully run by owner Sally Clark. When it first opened there was no choice on the menu, Sally decided what you were having and that is what you ate- a similar philosophy to Chez Panisse in Berkley California opened by Alice Waters in 1971. Alice is also Sally’s best friend.

The food served at Clarke’s is very simple, rustic with Mediterranean influences possible due to the Pugliese Head Chef and Sardinian Executive Chef. There is a strong focus on local ingredients and seasonality is given great importance. The lunch menu changes everyday and the dinner menu every week.

For me- brought up in Italy with a mother who obsessed over seasonal and local ingedients, Clarke’s was the perfect place to cultivate my excitement for cooking and food.

Kim in Spain, with Elif Batuman's voice.

Dear Phoebe,

I am really sorry; this is much longer than it was supposed to be. Once I started writing I got all excited, and then I wanted to end it so it would be shorter, but I didn't want the ending to be all abrupt-like. So it's very long. If you want just read the first half, the point is just to look @ my voice anyways. Sorry!!

Sincerely,

Kim

:-)


When I first arrived in Nerja, a tiny town on the southern coast of Spain, it was the end of September and almost 100 degrees. I had been to Europe before, but never alone, and at that time my Spanish was less than spectacular. I was nervous. I tried to make myself look as presentable as possible for my arrival at the Hotel Plaza Cavana, where I was to spend the next three months working as a waitress. But two flights, a lack of sleep, and an hour-long bus ride made that difficult. When I finally got off the bus I lugged my giant suitcase around for an hour, searching for the hotel. I finally arrived in reception, proud of myself, but dripping with sweat.
It took me a long time to get used to the people and customs of Nerja. Down on the Costa del Sol, it is a tourist town that thrives with obnoxious, vacationing Brits during the summer. But during the off-season, when I was there, it is empty. The locals have little to do but drink. And, as I learned, they did plenty of that.
They called me a “practicanda,” which I suppose is best translated into “intern,” though there is no actual English equivalent. I lived for free, ate for free, and worked five days a week. In addition, I was given two hundred euros per month. The setup was legally questionable—I was there on a tourist visa—but no one seemed to care or notice. At first I was the only “practicanda,” but a month later Vera, a girl from Germany, came, and soon after Tom from the UK arrived. Together we made up the hotel’s cheap foreign labor, and together we learned the ins and outs of that place.
The hotel owner was Paco, a middle-aged man with brown hair, beady eyes, and an enormous belly. His parents owned the hotel before him and his mother, a frigid old lady, would still stalk around and critique everyone. Paco’s brother was Jose Maria, a man who literally never smiled, who was suspected of being gay, and who was the same size as Paco—enormous. He was apparently trying to be an actor, and had once starred in an olive oil commercial (the commercial was shown to me by more than one giggling employee). Their little sister, Anna, was one of the receptionists; she was apparently extremely dim-witted (she may have had some mental disability), but the language barrier made it hard for me to tell the difference. The family, as a whole, functioned like a Telenovela—you know those overdramatic Latin America soap operas? Tom, Vera and I witnessed countless fights. Some were between Paco and Anna (those often bordered on physically abusive, which worried us since Anna, unlike her brothers, was very small), but many of the arguments were between Paco and Susanna, the other receptionist who was, Paco said, his “mujer,” or his woman. At some point we learned that they had never actually been married, but had been together for years. Now, they lived separately but still managed to maintain the façade of being trapped in an unhappy marriage by getting into screaming matches—usually in front of poor Vera, who was the “practicanda” of reception.
My job was easier. I was a waitress in the hotel restaurant, which included a dining room that was usually filled with old, pasty British couples, and a bar that attracted all the locals. The locals were an interesting group of characters. For some reason, they were all middle-aged men—after some observation, we concluded that the women must all be forced to stay home with their children, who were more often than not born out of wedlock. The men, meanwhile, indulged in copious amounts of booze and cocaine. I soon learned that this diet was not uncommon in Nerja; indeed, the night before I left the place for good I discovered my own boss’s cocaine stash. By then I had been there for three months, and wasn’t at all surprised. By then, I had first-hand experience on just how easy it is to get sucked into that lifestyle.

In the Style of Elif Batuman

My grandmother is a 75-year-old recent widow who within five minutes of my walking into her Fort Lauderdale apartment informs me, in her thick Slavic accent no less, that the billionaire who lives upstairs wants to wed her. After those grueling minutes and my grandma’s typical performance, I retreated to the guest room where I was staying, partly because I was tired, and partly because her Chanel Number 5 was giving me a headache.

I came to visit my Nana for my spring break. Florida is pretty close to New York City and I wanted to escape the busy life to relax on the sand. I also felt it sort of a duty to visit my grandma once in a while. After burying my grandfather, who she may or may not have aided his death with her constant nagging, she moved from Serbia and into an apartment in the land where old people come to dismiss their worries of freezing, and spend their remaining years in “paradise.”

I sat down at the dining table at a seat that faced the ocean front terrace, the window was open and a salty warm tropical breeze made my hair dance. I looked at my grandma. Her hair is cut short and stays up in a perfect swoop due to mass amounts of hairspray. Despite her age, her make-up is done to a T—from blue eyeshadow to the red lipstick that accentuates her mole above her lips.

I never understood how this woman was the mother to my mother—a gentle and somehow perfect woman, loved by every one who met her. They don’t have the mother/daughter relationship that we do, because she’s crazy. Not that I don’t love my grandma, of course I do! But she is definitely not the typical “chicken noodle soup let me adore my grandchildren,” type.

“Eat! I spent all day last night cooking this for you. I bought the vegetables at a huge-big grocery store and was in the kitchen all day. My back is aching because of that food but it is so good. Right? It is perfect. My food is perfect! Sit up straight Aleksandra.” I smile, sit up straight and tell her that yes, her food is perfect. And then I go along with every one of her rants and raves, nod as though I believe her lies are true, say yes when I don’t want desert. I remember now, that Florida with my grandma makes it difficult to relax… “How many boyfriends do you have?” she asks. I love my grandma.

Way To Go, Christina Aguilera

We get it, Christina, you can sing. But your vocal-athletics routine is almost worse than your mistaking the lyrics to the Star-Spangled Banner. It is arguably the most important song in America's history, and to remember the words was your only given responsibility at the moment.

On Sunday evening, the pop-starlet Christina Aguilera, 30, sang the national anthem at the 2011 Super Bowl, and endured much critical backlash. The past year has been tumultuous for the singer--she released an album that sold a low number of records, a film in which she was overshadowed drastically by another fading icon twice her age, and divorced her husband.

Whoever runs the Super Bowl chose Aguilera for her star-wattage power, impressive vocal range, and her conventional "good looks." The platinum blonde teetered on the stage in a three-button black Dolce and Gabbana skirtsuit and seven-inch, double-platform Christian Louboutin pumps. (Aguilera has also gained a significant amount of weight since her album debuted and her tour was canceled, prompting many gossip sites to nickname her "Snooki in a blonde wig"). Her skin was uncharacteristically bronzed, yet she kept her signature "Bitch, I stole your boyfriend" red lipstick.

She belted the national anthem, dragging out every line, tragically killing the song by over dramatizing-- she made a very climactic ballad quite anti-climactic. She can definitely hold a note, even if it may take screaming her head off to get there.

Maybe she was nervous on the stage, but her resume notes that she's had a lot of practice doing this (singing at basketball championships, previous Super Bowls, and countless live shows). However, the bottom line is--she made up an entire phrase. As if her throwing-her-voice-all-over-the-place display was not enough to offend the deceased Francis Scott Key. She sang "What so proudly we watched at the twilight's last reaming," instead of "O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming."

Her outfit was unspectacular and bland, something also uncharacteristic of Aguilera-- she often wears a skin-tight Herve Leger bandage dress in public, but surely for the Super Bowl a fashion-conscious person expects a patriotic, show-stopper look. After all, two years ago Jennifer Hudson performed the anthem in a ruffled black Alexander McQueen blazer with a buttoned cutaway hem, and appeared strong and optimistic following her family tragedy. Aguilera looked stiff, like she had walked out of a business meeting. Putting a cropped, three-button blazer on a short person was not a good idea.

Perhaps she should have worn a casual dress by a young American designer like Alexander Wang, or go the sexy route in Altuzarra. If she really wanted a suit, it should have been one from Olivier Theyskens’ line for Theory. And if she wanted to get jazzy à la Jennifer Hudson's outfit, she would have chosen a glam Balmain jacket. It was her opportunity to shine, and she missed it.

Elif Batuman Post

Last Wednesday, the Tishman Auditorium featured a roundtable discussion titled, “Walls and Bridges”—“curated by the [cultural institute] Villa Gillet and presented by the Conseil de la Création artistique.” The objective of this 10-day series was to, so to speak, “build a bridge” of cultural understanding between France and the United States (initiated by the French institution, I later heard). Their tagline was a quote taken from Isaac Newton, “We build too many walls and not enough bridges” (Newton’s fellow Englishmen, however, were conspicuously absent from this discussion).

This particular event, falling on day seven, was named “Catastrophe Practice”. Its panel was comprised of two French academics, philosopher Jean-Pierre Dupuy and geographer Michel Lussault. The participating Americans consisted of co-editor of n+1 magazine Marco Roth (reading a text prepared by philosopher John Lear, who was then currently stranded by a severe snow storm in Chicago), and graphic novelist and illustrator Josh Neufeld. Each panelist would present a presentation, to be followed by a discussion concerning, “the political, social, individual, and literary imagination of catastrophe.”

It is unclear whether the two French academics were expecting the, what was later deemed, “typically American” question told from a member of the mostly American audience, in a “typically American” fashion. The discussion came to an end after this audience member in question, an older woman (a life long New Yorker), stepped up to the microphone previously designated for the audience, and began a long account of personal reminisces. Marco Roth, also co-host of the event, attempted to interject after a few minutes had gone by without a question materializing (she was somewhere along recounting bible stories she had read as a child, and living in New York post September 11^th), “I’m going to be cruel…I’m going to be cruel,” Roth protested intermittently, “but what’s your question?”

After a final summation of what she wished to propose (then ignoring Roth’s interruptions, or acknowledging them with a gesture equivalent to “hold on, my question is coming ”) she asked from the panel for an anecdote of their own, revealing their own personal experience (if applicable) with a catastrophe. Dupoy instantly replied, “I have had experiences with catastrophe, but I am not sharing them”. To which his fellow French colleague nodded in agreement.

LLSW 3505: Investigative Memoir - The Blog

Hi all!

This is the blog for our Intermediate Non-Fiction class in Investigative Memoir, where we'll be posting short pieces inspired by the writers we're reading over the course of the term. I'm looking forward to reading everyone's work.

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