But I Didn't Inhale

Did everyone see this NY Times story that China is covered in toxic industrial soot? That it's blotting the sun out by 20 percent in some places?

Yancey and I could both have told you that. We were there in April of 2001, and yeah, I don't remember who ended up sicker. No, I do remember. Yancey was sicker than me at that point. But I'd been assimilating already by then, through Bangkok and Hanoi. Didn't help me in Cairo though. I got a horrible cough there initially.

I wonder how the clouds would have looked over the Northeast US during the Industrial Revolution, or if it was just too much "smaller" a world then to have the same impact.

Whatever It Is, I Think It's Important

On Saturday, I am speaking to impressionable young minds about the merits of dik-diks, Djibouti, and Lake Titicaca.

And this site mentioned my appearance. Though I've never heard of the site, they apparently get a lot of traffic because the bookstore in question has been flooded with orders for the 3-D World Atlas & Tour.

Come on by. I'll be at Book Culture on W. 112th just east of Broadway, starting at 11 a.m. I'll wear my new skirt and boots, even.

Insult or Compliment?

I had to go to Brooklyn yesterday to pick up my new custom-made Flirt-skirt and to see a designer about taking in another article of clothing that I'd bought from her flea market stand.

Brooklyn is a big place, with lots of different neighborhoods. I started in Carroll Gardens, which I like, and walked through Gowanus over the canal (now one of my favorite parts of Brooklyn) and then on into Park Slope. After taking care of the business I was there for, I dodged strollers and training wheels on my way to the coffee shop, where I intended to get a snack and do some work on a 3-D atlas piece I'm trying to write for the Chronicle Books blog.

I scanned the menu and addressed the counter help.

"What bread does the hummus and avocado sandwich come on?"

"Whole grain or alsatian."

"Alsatian?" I was puzzled. "Sounds like a dog. What about the chili? Does that have tofu in it?"

I didn't mean to spit it out like tofu was the devil. But y'see, to me, it is. I'm horribly allergic. But the guy behind the counter didn't know that.

"No, no tofu." He laughed at me a little. "It's turkey. It's really good."

"Turkey chili?" I probably looked a little appalled. "I'll have... the BLT."

I thought for a second and then realized I should make sure.

"That's pig meat, right? Not turkey bacon or tofu bacon?"

Shocked, the counter help looked at me.

"You're not very Park Slope."

I squirmed. "I'm not from around here," I said after a minute.

Proudly.

Welcome to New York, Now Go Home

This sign is posted in front of the Woolworth Building. Which made me wonder, since I'm not a tourist, could I march right in?

More Brain Work

We started knitting school last night. Me, Kraiger, Roberta. Well, Roberta had to start the night before due to a scheduling conflict, but she'll be knitting with us next time at the Stockinette Cafe around the corner from me in JC. It's in a place that used to be a deli belonging to the brother-in-law of my friend Pete (who used to be assistant editor on X-Men when I was coloring X-books).

Our teacher was patient and sweet, and coincidentally belongs to the same knitting group as Kraiger's neighbor. His neighbor knows me too, from 20 years ago, when life for me, the Other Marie, and Nancy was about splitting our time between work, sleeping, and watching music at Maxwell's. I've seen the knitting group down the street at BASIC, and I always thought it was odd, all these people sitting around a table chatting and clicking needles.

And now I am one of them. Well, not really. I assume they know what they are doing. I do not.

I did work out how to get the yarn onto the needle, and then how to knit it off onto the other needle, and then switch hands and start over. But it looked like a bunch of knots.

Which is what it is, I suppose. So maybe I'm doing okay.

But Isn't That A Bit Risky?

Eight babies in a Kisumu, Kenya, hospital were named either Barack or Michelle yesterday. Two of them were twins, a boy and a girl.

I know it's like getting a Superman logo tattoo and then hoping the franchise doesn't start to suck. But how cute.

About Last Night

At quarter past eleven, New York City erupted in a community primal scream, a shout so jubilant that only one person appeared to not be swept up in it.

"What's going on up there?" The token booth clerk at 86th and Broadway asked a customer.

"It's for Obama."

"Oh."

"You don't care?"

"No. Obama. Whatever."

I guess if I had to sit in a bullet-proof booth night after night, handing out MetroCards, I'd be kind of dejected too.

But for the other New Yorkers, there was no stopping the joy. The horns, the hoots, the shouts. The occasional "It's over!" But why quarter-past, why not at eleven on the dot when California, Oregon, and Washington reported in and tipped the scales?

Cuz people were crying. Total silence for a minute, and then gasps and sniffles. I looked around the room I was in, watching my friend's big-ass flat-screen TV. Not a dry eye in the house. Earlier that evening, when I'd rushed uptown after class, the streets had been abandoned as New Yorkers gathered around televisions and held their breath. We're not exactly a stronghold of the right-wing up here, plus any way you cut it, the neocons were out. Now the question was, what direction would we go in?

I don't envy Obama his new job. It's no secret that two things that got him where he is now are Iraq and the economy. Neither of which has any obvious or easy solution. Neither of which can be repaired without significantly unpopular choices and some national—and global—pain. A bit of perceived betrayal is inevitable. But damned if we didn't witness a cultural and generational shift last night. Baby boomers were put on notice. The balance of power shifted from old-school to something as-yet-unnamed.

And you know that scene at the end of Star Wars, where celebrations take place around the galaxy? Keep your eyes on the BBC today, that's all I'm saying.

Election Day Edition

Have you ever tried to explain the concept of "tyranny of the masses" to a non-English-speaking man in an unindustrialized country? Have you ever been cornered by a person who lives in a hut, has no plumbing, makes three thousand dollars a year, and wants to know how the USA can go around making demands of other countries when it cannot even get its own elections straight? Stuttered out something vague about the Electoral College to a local guide on a hike in Papua New Guinea?

Have you ever watched as the opinion of your country changed from grudging respect tinged with envy to distaste? Have you seen foreign taxi drivers to academics shake their heads in disbelief at the actions of your very own government?

I have. Most of these moments are immortalized online in one place or another.

I know that next January, we'll all be disappointed, and that the problems our country—and by extension, the world—faces are massive and unmanageable and that on some level, we are all deeply screwed, but seeing the handmade signs that read HOPE, or the WE ARE READY TO BELIEVE AGAIN banner on the window at Gray's Papaya, or the photos of Tanzania on Pernille's blog really does get cynical me all misty-eyed for just a minute.

From Target to 8th Street

Here's my new toy.

We've only had one fight so far, but a quick look at the instruction manual straightened that out.

Skirt Class: Part 3

I'm sorry to report that I did not make a brilliant, cool skirt in skirt class.

Instead I produced something that didn't quite work, and looks like someone's kid sewed it in Home Ec in high school. No, someone's kid probably would have done a little better.

I was doing really well in Classes 1 & 2, but in Class 3, I lost the plot. First, we were a little late. Second, I was more interested in showing off my old Whitegirl brand party dresses from an indie designer in JC in the early nineties. Third, my bobbin spazzed (so did Denise's), and finally, I managed to sew my zig-zag stitch right into my straight stitch along the hem.

I took out the zig-zag stitch with the seam ripper, but meanwhile the class was moving on to twill tape waistbands. Things were getting away from me.

I industriously plowed ahead, but could feel frustration rising in me. Denise was having the same problem, as her machine rebelled. I could hear her lecturing it, but nothing seemed to work.

Then, one of the other students kind of lost it. She was even more frustrated than we were, and looked quite upset.

Denise and I talked about it at the coffee shop afterwards. That was the moment when we'd both caught ourselves, stopped our rising frustrations, laughed a bit, and gotten back to work.

Neither of us was that thrilled with our final products, and we both made the mistake where our top hems don't meet at the zippers. So she bought another skirt and I ordered a custom-made one.

Made by Patti at Flirt, that is. Not by me.