Jim

Jim sits on the last step of the stairwell leading down to the south bound Carroll Street F stop. He is there every day. I see him while I'm exiting and trying beat the crowd up the stairs, which all happens in a rush. Usually he is reading the paper calmly, like it's the most normal thing in the entire world to read a newspaper on the bottom step of a dirty staircase in Brooklyn. Sometimes his shirt is off, other times he has his short sleeves rolled up around his shoulders like softball players do when they're trying to get some sun on their arms.

He is always so peaceful and studious, or maybe that's just his glasses. I mean, he looks as if he could be reading the paper anywhere, like a living room or cafe table. Jim never asks for money, nor is there even a cup to throw change in. He tries to politely squeeze to one side on a group of people attempt to get up the stairs.

I don't know where he comes from-there just aren't that many homeless people in Carroll Gardens. I don't believe he sleeps down there. One time I was followed by a cop and when Jim saw the cop he just gathered up his things and left. He didn't even act like it was a big deal.

Jack

After work I enter the 23rd Street station and walk to the end of the platform. There I wait to enter the absolute last door of the last car, so that I'll be dropped off safely in Carroll Gardens right next to the turnstiles closest to the exits. I do this so I won't have to get stuck in the inevitable turnstile gridlock and all the mad people with briefcases stacking up against each other. For if I do, then I'll get stuck behind some slow line of stairclimbers, and will be blocked from a quick pass by the inevitable sole person coming down the stairs. I spend a lot of time thinking about this.

More than half of the time that I'm waiting at the 23rd Street platform I'm joined by a struggling human being I'll refer to as Jack. I bet I see Jack three times a week, and as far as I can tell, I'm the only one to remember the encounters. See, the end of the platform is special for him, too. That's apparently where he's set up his living room. Beer cans, plastic bags, lay in the same spot. He stumbles around a lot, zigzagging across the platform, always with a cigarette, which is always somehow lit.

His focus of attention seems to be the upcoming train, which he snakes his neck around into the tunnel to check for, even though I have of yet to see him board one. He's never asked me for change and yet I feel like I have the most contact with him than anyone else in the city.

I stand by him becuase I'd like to be the first one through the turnstiles at a station some 10 stops away on a different island. I'm not sure if he ever worries about going anywhere, or if he can possibly get there any faster.

The Case for Sufjan Stevens

Over the past two months I've been doing lots of things: moving, reading, going to Coney Island, and working fairly hard on the Paupered Chef, a daily task that takes a good amount of energy every single night. So this little blog which no one reads has kind of fallen by the wayside unless I get motivated to do something, like talk politics for no apparent reason, or something along those lines. So, this should be this writing should signify something rather important. That reason is Sufjan.

It's open season for Sufjan as he releases an album acknowledged as okay and gets a searing indictment on Allmusic by resident critic Stephen Thomas Erlewine, whose long but hastily written piece about Sufjan is the basis for this piece.

I don't take issue with his feelings about Sufjan, or with Bright Eyes -he panned I'm Wide Awake It's Morning- but with the way he tried to rationalize something he couldn't quite articulate, mainly his feeling that Sufjan is grossly overrated.

He calls Sufjan pleasant and says he is considered an important artist because he uses woodwinds. He also believes Sufjan's focus on other people's lives creates a disconnect between artist and subject, that because Sufjan did not go through these events he sounds less like a songwriter and more like a story teller: "Each song is thoroughly researched, spit-shined, and presented for the class, as if he's reciting all that he learned during his time in the library".
This kind of smear the queer, intellectual aping, rock-is-only-for-the-cool-kids is ridiculous. In fact, Erlewine can't quite get past the idea that Sufjan is uncool:

Appropriately, his lyrics often read like the work of a gifted but sheltered high schooler, and his music sounds like a drama student's idea of a pop opera and it's all wrapped up on albums with stylized childish artwork, hand-drawn pictures that inadvertently wind up enforcing the impression that Stevens is an overgrown teenager.

I take most issue with this last comment, both because of its a deliberately grating language, and because it basically discounts 50 years of pop music which has been almost exclusively made for, and sometimes made by, teenagers. In fact, Sufjan's lyrics deal with situations that are outside normal pop music conventions, and therefore can be seen as a growth of subject matter over what is mostly out there.

His comparison of Illinois and SMiLE is misguided and soley intended to discredit an album he obviously dislikes. Illinois is a collection of story songs meant as a hodgepodge, not a complete portrait. SMiLE was a uniform work, perfectly executed, and is ambiguous in its language and varied in its instrumentation. Sufjan's not there, nor is he really trying to, because while SMiLE contains some of the greatest pop songs recorded to date, it also contains many fragments that only work in context of the album. Illinois is a purely song based album, and that's where the comparison talk should end. In fact, while Erlewine believes Sufjan is guilty of too much teenager showoffness, SMiLE is essentially dedicated to being a child.

I believe that most people's unease with Illinois stems from two factors, only one of which really matters. The first is the near universal acclaim for the album, which in the plethora of music sites increasing music snobbering, turns violent fast (Just look what happened to poor Clap Your Hands Say Yeah for that one). The second factor is more understandable. Illinois is much less personal than Sufjan's previous two albums, and in that way, is much less tangible. Names of places are dropped randomly, and the whole exercise can feel a little academic after awhile. He's not dealing with his confused upbringing (Michigan) or with his religious convictions (Seven Swans).

I began feeling the same disconnect shortly after we published our list of the top albums of 2005. I felt like I had slighted an album like Bright Eyes's I'm Wide Awake It's Morning, which emotionally moved me far more than Illinois. And then comes an album like The Avalanche, a long meandering album with a few good songs, some pleasant, and some rather boring. This post has nothing to do with trying to qualify the album as only being a b-side album, or state its interesting correlation with Illinois, which is all perfectly fine as a concept but bares no meaning as a pop album. I'm not that terribly interested in the album (it doesn't sound like Sufjan is either), not because I think the songs are horrible, or that it proves that Sufjan is a narrowly focused artist who can't develop past his simple chord progression and flutes galore formula, but because he has already released b-sides over the past year that are far more engaging and offer a better view of what Sufjan can do.

The "Lord God Bird" is a song he wrote specifically for NPR that is supposed to chronicle ivory-billed woodpecker. It's simple, affecting, and a nice break from the cacophony of the Illinois recordings. It shows Sufjan's craft at injecting inhuman topics with a sense of purpose through his prose.

Better is "Opie's Funernal Song", which matches Seven Swans' intense performance with something in the way of actual romantic interaction. It's not exactly a new high, but a completely beautiful song that exists nowhere and has no purpose in pushing Sufjan's image. The perfect b-side.

It seems like Sufjan's not going back to the same sound the made Michigan and Illinois so similar, and so the affronts on monodimensial sounds will hopefully end when he stops tooting those horns. But what will remain is his songwriting talents, and those can't be questioned.

To criticize someone for injecting humor and warmth into objects and attitudes completely out of mainstream consciousness, for making something move which previously did not, is hard to take. And I think that's why I keep heading back to Illinois, to feel the highways stretch, and the Midwest buckle, to hear life in the things I once thought inactive.

Who's On Third...A Plea for Al Gore and Michael Bloomberg

He (Al Gore) is a symbol of what might have been, who insists that we focus on what likely will be an uninhabitable planet if we fail to pay attention to the folly we are committing, and take the steps necessary to end it.
- David Remnick


Bloomberg should really run - fanfare, please - for the good of the country. Elsewhere in this issue you'll find smart discussions of how American politics could use a competitive jolt from a centrist third party. Those stories do a terrific job of describing how we got into this mess and the mechanism for creating a cure. The specific candidate who best fits the description, and who is best equipped for a 2008 third-party presidential run, is Mike Bloomberg.
- Chris Smith





We are entering a strange period of Republican dominated politics, and no it's not a feeling or a change of the drift, but a real, full scale attack on many of the principles that this government stands for. Not that the entire government is going to collapse, Bush will not denounce his horrible economic policy, and Rumsfeld will not retire anytime soon saying, "That was fun, but it wasn't going to work out."

The change is more real than that. The Republicans aren't massively losing their base. They are moving closer to the center. Sure there are the generals calling for Rumsfeld to quit, George Bush's lowest poll numbers, but this isn't the end of the Republican dominance, just a lessening of the complete choke-hold.

While I look forward to the upcoming 2006 elections, I'm not sure if the sea change is going to happen to really change the actions of Washington, which only the 2008 election could. Certain realities are so entrenched, the idea of them changing is beyond all imagination. Think how odd it would be if Guantanamo just shut down, the government came up with a real exit strategy in Iraq, balanced the budget, fixed welfare, raised taxes on the wealthy, fixed corporate welfare, and got rid of the clean air act and passed a real one.

During the past two days, two articles have popped up that call for something quite different in the elections. The first is a misty-eyed portrait of Al Gore in the New Yorker. It's a piece that not many people have been clamoring for, but it speaks in tears and wanders the hidden depth of hope that was buried after 9-11. Ralph Nader's call in 2000 about both parties being one in the same, doesn't ring true anymore. There is no doubt the world would have been a much different place had Al Gore won. The sadness of the article is balanced by some deep seeded hope, and for some reason it rests in both our understanding of how horribly wrong events can turn and in how courageous Mr. Gore is.

It is past time to recognize that, over a long career, his policy judgment and his moral judgment alike have been admirable and acute. Gore has been right about global warming since holding the first congressional hearing on the topic, twenty-six years ago. He was right about the role of the Internet, right about the need to reform welfare and cut the federal deficit, right about confronting Slobodan Milosevic in Bosnia and Kosovo. Since September 11th, he has been right about constitutional abuse, right about warrantless domestic spying, and right about the calamity of sanctioned torture. And in the case of Iraq, both before the invasion and after, he was right - courageously right - to distrust as fatally flawed the political and moral good faith, operational competence, and strategic wisdom of the Bush Administration.

By the end of the article I was ready to once again think about the towering mTennesseennesse. So much has changed since then.

If the next election really does turn into a battle of the New York titans, Hillary vs. Giuliani, then the one name that begs to be added is Bloomberg, every liberal's favorite Republican. New York Magazine ran this story about its favorite mayor. Some Democrats may admire John McCain, but Bloomberg's policies are real and effective liberal-in-disguise policies sold with a Republican coat, and the New York Magazine does a great job explaining why he needs to run.

Bloomberg has compiled an impressive record running the nation's most complicated city in the wake of its greatest tragedy. He's overhauled, if not completely fixed, the public-school system. He's overseen a multifaceted security apparatus, the NYPD, as it has built an international anti-terrorism operation. He's chosen talented subalterns and allowed them to do their jobs. He's governed in a commonsense, adult, nonideological manner, born of the fact that he isn't a lifelong politician. There's also the fact that presidential candidates are judged on authenticity, and Bloomberg is a man who knows himself; he doesn't focus-group every word before speaking. And he could bypass the whole tawdry, enfeebling fund-raising spectacle by bankrolling his own campaign.

It's way too early to begin the excruciating business of picking a candidate for president. But because hunting season opened right after Bush won the last one, I guess it isn't too ridiculous. I'm not calling for an independent party, or for a Bloomberg/Gore ticket. These are just two men I think should run the country, and I wish they were starting to get more coverage. Anyway, this is just hope. And hope is something that's been muffled for a long time.

And wow, there’s something amazing about that Blue.

Is this the Hockney painting that led Art Brut to hysterics?

By the way, it was an amazing show last night.

Well it's official...

After 8 months in which I worked for 11 different companies, 12 different bosses, and learned invaluable skills like answering the telephone, sorting mail, and generally looking agreeable all the time, I am now official employee of CAA.

Side note: I'll still be poor.

The Courtesy Police

My temperament has been shaped by many forces. The most prominent and powerful has to be my dear mother. She was a school counselor for most of my youth and whenever I'd get mad she'd sit me down and explain things in the most simplistic language how I was wrong. Whether she was right or wrong, I'll never completely know, she was able to relate to me that there was more than one way to look at something. The other was force was undoubtedly my liberal education, which made me write detailed papers on horribly complex issues, drawing on competing theories. I somehow had to make sense of it all.

Naturally, the only two things that really get me riled up are my mother and world politics which are both completely out of my control. I hate President Bush, exploitative economic policies, and wars that kill people. I have yet to win one argument with my mom. Otherwise, I am a fairly even-tempered young man. We can debate an issue and I'll always get both sides of the issue, and as long as we aren't talking about the Fiery Furnaces, I'll give someone the benefit of the doubt. Conflict is something that people do when they aren't intelligent enough to sit down and discuss.

Because I live on the Upper East Side my use of the mass transit system is mostly relegated to numbers 4, 5, or 6. It's a clean, well-maintained line that is packed at nearly every hour of the day with commuters, tourists, and other Manhattanites. Finding a seat is a rare, glorious thing, like finding a quarter on the ground and nearly as sanitary.

Because the 4, 5 was closed for maintenance below the Brooklyn Bridge, and I needed quite dearly to get into Brooklyn, I was forced, completely against my will, onto another line. Of course, it was dirty, slow, and old. The newer, better trains have seats lined perfectly straight with their backs to the windows. The older trains have staggered seating, like our friend in the picture above, no doubt meant to allow more people the pleasure of sitting down while in transit. But it creates some uncomfortable situations, especially when one sits in the corner seat, like our friend, and has roughly 5 inches of leg room before another seat is positioned.

Here's the scene: It was a busy Saturday night. A hooded young African-American (Passenger 1) was lounging in one of the corner seats with his legs sprawled out comfortably on the seat in front of him. A spiky red-haired white homosexual(Passenger 2) enters the train and looks around for a seat. He notices, quite quickly, that the young hooded gentlemen is using one of the chairs as a foot stool and asks him nicely to move it.

Passenger 2: Will you PLEASE move your foot off the seat. That is so rude. This is public transportation. This isn't your fucking car. Move your feet OFF the seat so other people can sit down.

I wouldn't say the train exploded into applause the moment Passenger 2 finished his speech, but I don't believe I was the only one to show a little smile. Here was a man with blatant disregard for everyone else and someone had the nerve to say something about it. Good for him.

Now I don't know if Passenger 1 took immediate offense, he was covered in sweatshirt, or if he was spouting off indecencies back at Passenger 2. But Passenger 2 erupted into a full-fledged rant.

Passenger 2: If you even touch me I will sue your ass for assault. Do you hear me? Is this how you solve all of your problems? How can you be so rude? This is so rude. You should let other people sit down. This is ridiculous.

It was becoming ridiculous. Passenger 2 passionate speech, no doubt, was alluding to was that putting one's foot up on a seat is indicative to other society ills. If you don't care about public transportation, then you probably wouldn't mind swiping someone's wallet. I understand this.

By this time other passengers have been drawn into the little spat. With all the wandering eyes, Passenger 1 lazily puts his feet down, like a bratty junior high student. This is not enough. Passenger 2 continues his rant. Things start to get uncomfortable. He won't stop.

Now my allegiance has turned from the boisterous courtesy cop to the misunderstood sloucher. The amount of leg room between the corner seat and the seat in front of him almost begs for one to put their foot up. As well, no one knows what Passenger 1 has been through. After a long day of work, everyone would love to spread out and put their feet up, he was just trying to get comfortable. Not that landing one's foot up on a seat is the correct thing to do, but neither is losing one's temper when talking to someone who has their feet up on a seat. It really isn't a big deal.

A very large African American man across the aisle tells Passenger 2 to "chill out, man, he put his feet down." Passenger 1, feeling backed up by a fellow traveler calls Passenger 2 a "fag". Oh... My allegiance shifts again.

If Passenger 1 is rude enough to ignore common courtesy in public spaces, then how does he act around his parents, his lovers, and his coworkers? Does he call all people who tell him how to behave "fags", or just ones that yell at him? Does it all start right here?

Passenger 2 replies to the "fag" comment with: "Yes, I am a homosexual. Does that scare you? No, I will not fight you. How big of a baby are you? If you touch me I will sue you for assault and battery."

Thinking back about what has just transpired, I have almost forgotten that this was all started because a random guy had his feet on a seat. And now things are spiraling out of control. The whole train car is in on what is going to happen between Passenger 1 and Passenger 2. Will fisticuffs break out because of concerns about common courtesy?

Luckily the train reaches the Lower East Side, Passenger 1 stands up, he's HUGE, and lumbers out of the car all smiles and bravado. Passenger 2 sits and glares at the ground. Who won that fight?