Arabic Lessons Over

My Arabic lessons are over, the eight sessions completed as of yesterday.

Like most languages, it went from making sense to "I know nothing." They always work that way. You plow along at a rapid clip, following drills and answering questions correctly because it's so easy to spot patterns in the listen-and-repeat method, though you have no clue what you're doing or why you're responding the way you do.

Then we got into the meat and potatoes. The falafel and fuul. The alphabet. The damn thing offers no shortcuts, no tricks of memorization. No way around it, have to slog through it.

The next session begins December 2. I want to keep it up, but I'll miss a few lessons. I want a vacation after the atlas is complete, before I start working full-time making comic books again. I'll miss the end because I have a secret (non-sinister) mission coming up in Feb-March, and won't be needing to find a new place to live in the New York area for a while. But I sure will learn a lot of Arabic on this secret mission.

Anniversary of Hope

It's been a year now since Herr Marlboro left me at Uganda's Entebbe airport. I'd lived in Uganda for three months, partially in Murchison Falls with him, and partially in Kampala, sometimes with him and sometimes by myself. I'd moved to Namibia for a few months fter we had some problems, and was only back in Uganda for a week.

I was full of hope for redemption then. We seemed perfectly matched. Things had a way of working out, a perfect serendipity in which life handed over nice surprises on a regular basis. I'd been lucky so far.

Also, a good man—a taxi driver I'd met—had prayed for me after asking about my estrangement. I was a bit superstitious about this, the last time anyone having prayed for me having been when I walked out of a terrible accident in Ethiopia. I'd been in a great mood after H.M. and I had met earlier that day at the new coffee spot in Garden City shopping mall. I was as enthralled as the first time we'd met in Sudan, immortalized in Stalking the Wild Dik-Dik. He'd nearly—but not quite—apologized for one of two incidents of appalling behavior.

But the only redemption that was attempted was in my sagging fantasies. The good-bye at the airport was good-bye forever. Hope is what keeps us going but it also blinds us to reality.

I've been blinded plenty of times by hope. Roberta tells me that it's okay to hope but not to expect. I've never managed to find a balance. I'm not even sure I can isolate the distinction between the two.

So today is the anniversary of when I still had faith in serendipity. There's been no evidence that it's returning. Since the alternative is bitterness, I'm hoping it grows back. Which means that it will, in time.

Moving On

The first thing I did after moving into my apartment in November, 2002, was to move out of it.

Well, no, the first thing I did was saw up the plywood over the pine floor. Then I sublet. THEN I moved out.

I was gone for for three months, the maximum time I could stay in Oz.

When I returned in spring of 2003, I was home for a long stretch. My next major absence was for three months at the end of 2004, when I had a flat in Barcelona. Marc Siry stayed in my place, a little bit house-sitter, a little bit renter.

I was home for six months after that, then went to Africa for six months. Then home for six weeks, then off to Kuwait for three months.

Given that I was away from my place almost as much as I was in it, you'd think I'd be less sentimental about leaving it again.

It's just... this time it's permanent. And I've been looking around the neighborhood. Few things--well, nothing--in my price range are as nice. Taxes on other places are higher. I'm already on the best block in the area.

Yesterday, a home inspector checked out my place for the buyer. He nitpicked, found some things "wrong" that aren't wrong, missed some things, and turned the stove on wrong, allowing gas to escape to the kitchen for several minutes. But he didn't find anything so wrong that the buyer wants to back out.

Which is kind of a bummer, because I'm having seller's remorse, and I wouldn't mind at all if the buyer backed out.

My apartment has so much of my last several years' personal history built into it. Turbo's fingerprints are everywhere. I feel terribly guilty at leaving his hard work to someone who doesn't know or appreciate his efforts. And my friends are here too--Yancey tearing up the carpet and breaking down boxes, Lynne brushing dust out of every radiator fin, Al Huckabee beating the hell out of the plaster to cut holes in it, Roberta carrying insulation bales, and Michael Kraiger pulling down plaster to expose the bricks underneath.

But these are people. And a home is just a house. The people will come into my next place (well, some of them will). If there ever is a next place. Given the cost of buying, it probably doesn't make sense to own right now.

I'm poor. I clean up well, but under that upper-middle-class-white-gal-exterior is someone who easily would qualify for food stamps and free medical care. I've been faking it since I left my decent salary at Marvel for a life of barely paying freelance writing. I seldom get the opportunity to walk out of a lawyer's office with a check for a hundred and fifty grand. I should shut up and quit feeling guilty.

But then there's this.

Where the hell am I gonna live?

Reference Materials

When real estate agents were bringing prospective buyers into my apartment, the first thing they always did was comment on the "tin" ceiling.

It's not really tin, because it's new. Tin isn't legal anymore. It's some other metal, designed to look like tin, which is a fire hazard. (I got it here.)

The second thing they'd do is turn right and look at the bathroom. Which is why I installed a new vanity and re-caulked the tub. The bathroom was the least appealing room in the house.

Then they'd head into the living room and notice the bookcase.

"Wow. You must travel a lot."

I never knew how to answer that without getting into a long conversation that was way too chit-chatty with someone I could end up sparring with (via lawyers).

"Yes. I do. And over here is a faux gaslamp. Did you notice these original Eastlake-style hinges?"

African Comics in Harlem

Starting November 15, the Studio Museum in Harlem is hosting an exhibit of African comics.

On view: November 15, 2006 - March 18, 2007
Africa Comics
The first-ever exhibition of comic art from Africa comes to The Studio Museum in Harlem.

Africa Comics includes 32 artists or 2-person artists’ teams from all over the continent of Africa, including Angola, Benin, Central African Republic, Cameroon, Democratic Republic of Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Gabon, Ivory Coast, Kenya, Madagascar, Mali, Mozambique, Nigeria, Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Senegal, South Africa, Tanzania, and Togo.

I am definitely going to check this out.

Capturing the Castle

When I took my Amtrak trip to Montreal, it rained all day. This and whizzing through the countryside at 60 miles an hour made it tough to get decent photos of the foliage I was supposed to be covering for the Amtrak site.

I've been completely overwhelmed with work (Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be freelancers) and unable to get upstate to take clear photos... until yesterday.

It's overcast at 7 a.m. on a Sunday but I have got to get this done before all the leaves drop.

I took a chance, loaded up on cameras, and Henry the Ford Taurus and I drove through the Holland Tunnel to the Westside Highway. We cruised north through Riverdale, Yonkers, and into the Hudson Valley.

The sun came out and the views were spectacular. Just north of Cold Spring, New York, I pull over beside the road, reassured Henry that I'd be right back, and hiked a short distance to a railroad footbridge overpass.

And that's where I got a shot of Bannerman Castle, ruins a thousand feet offshore on a deserted island.

Was this mysterious castle occupied by ousted European royalty? Was it built as a monument to love, like the Taj Mahal? Nah. Just one man's munitions business. But it's still cool.

And when I got back home, I went by the pie-baking contest (which also hosts a used book sale every Sunday). I dropped off some old books, and in return got a free slice of pie! Several free slices, actually. But I missed out on the contest. Not only did I not get a chance to enter it, I didn't even get a winning slice. Still, free pie is free pie. I'd call that a good Sunday.

Fun with Adhesives

Once upon a time—before she went to work for Velcro® in Barcelona, and then moved to China for her MBA—my friend Lynne worked for the company that makes Blu-Tack.

Blu-Tack isn't well-known in the US, but it's a putty-like substance that people in Europe sometimes use to stick things on walls. The idea is that it (in theory) leaves no mark on the wall.

It is also good for sculpting!

One year, back when I did things like this (1997 on Avenue B), I had a New Year's party. Some people came by and somehow we all ended up sculpting Lynne's Blu-Tack instead of doing party things.

The Lawrence of Arabia Blu-Tack sculpture is by Mark Powers. Jenn (of Babc0ck and Jenn) did one of these, but I don't remember which. The other is a mystery.

Wall of Cows

Between 1988 and 1995, I had an office wall covered in comic book cows.

Mark Chiarello drew the first one. I'm not sure who drew the last one—maybe Alex Ross in 1999 or 2000—but the cows continued after the wall had turned into a web. The John Paul Leon one was definitely from 1999, right after I went to Egypt. He drew the cow by a pyramid. The Jim Lee one is really great. So is the Jon J Muth one. Actually, nearly all of them are unique so it's hard to choose a favorite.

The amazon links are all out of date, the counter has turned over once, and the site moos, which is kind of annoying. I think I made this site for a class I was taking in web design, and we were on the chapter about "Frames."

Check it out.

Plumb Finished

I realize that no one else cares—except maybe Turbo if he ever reads this—but I am so pleased with my newfound skills at plumbing!

After buying the vent I mentioned earlier, I had to make several trips to the plumbing supply store to get the right PVC pipes. And I had to use my hacksaw on pipes too, because they only come in super-long pieces.

I found the purple primer and PVC cement that Turbo left in the bottom of my tool closet, and it was a stinky operation, but in the end I have an island sink drain that works like a charm and doesn't go glub, glub, glub.

I love when things go as planned.

They Do

72 hours after I said I'd never be in another wedding, I was in another wedding.

It was kind of an accident.

Babc0ck and Jenn had opted out of having a big ceremony. They'd actually been planning it for weeks, but sprang it on everyone else suddenly to avoid potential wedding hijackers—you know, well-intentioned friends and relatives who just want to help them out in ways they don't want to be helped.

They'd wanted Pond Scum to be their witness, but that didn't work out when it was discovered that he had no legal identification. No driver's license, no passport, no state ID. He'd once had an official card issued by his reservation (he's Native American) but no one is sure where it went.

You need ID to get into City Hall, and in theory to be a witness. Plus, I think he had to work.

I wanted to see the ceremony, and I arrived while Jenn's sister and mother were in the restroom. Jenn and Babc0ck went to wait in line at the info desk. I followed, curious to see bureaucracy in action.

The information officer did not look up as we approached her desk. She held her hand out.

"Money order."

Babc0ck handed it over. She made a few marks. She still didn't look up. Her hand went out again.

"Form."

He handed over a form. She marked a few blanks. She finally looked up.

"Groom? You the groom?"

"That's me."

"Sign here."

Babc0ck signed by the X.

"Bride?"

Jenn signed.

"You the witness?" She was looking at me.

"Guess so," Jenn said, laughing. Her family was still MIA.

"Sign here." I signed. No one asked me for ID. I was suddenly Best Man again. The officer handed all the papers to Babc0ck.

"Go stand in that line."

The next line was the money line. We gave the money order to a friendly woman who was behind a thick wall of glass, like a bank teller. She handed Jenn a receipt.

"Go to Window 7."

At Window 7, Babc0ck handed over the license and got a certified document in exchange.


"Now wait in the hall for them to call your name."

The three-line process had taken about one-and-a-half minutes, involved a lot of stamping, and no showing of identification.

"I'll go find your mother and sister." Babc0ck headed to the restrooms.

Thirty seconds later, a string of names was called. The last names were Jonathan and Jennifer.

Jenn's eyes got big.

"I'll go into the waiting room--you go find Jonathan!"

I got as far as the elevator when I remember the magic of cell phones. I dialed him, and he strolled up a second later.

"I couldn't find them."

"Well, then they'll miss it. C'mon! They called your name. Do you want Jenn to marry herself?"

We went into the waiting room. The line got smaller and smaller, as each couple disappeared into the chapel.

Only one other couple was left, when Jenn's family finally showed.

The officiant was a gregarious and sensible woman, who efficiently married Babc0ck and Jenn in under two minutes. They exchanged a few rings they'd bought earlier on St. Mark's Place, from a man who'd given them a discount when he learned they were wedding rings. Or maybe it was because they didn't have the right change.

Mr. and Mrs. Whatever-Names-They're-Using walked out of New York's municipal buillding only minutes after entering it. It was easier than getting a driver's license. The security check lasted longer than the ceremony.

And for me, always the Best Man and never the Bride, it was painless and even, fun.