"World Link"

Feeling a bit devoid of inspiration as of late, not because my life has been dull, but because of the exact opposite (there was so much DRAMA going on that the last thing I wanted to do was take a moment to sit down and relive any portion of it by writing it out) so I decided to attend an event that Toni Morrison was hosting. I’ve always loved her work and had a feeling I might be inspired by her presence as well.

The event was held at The Town Hall where many greats have graced the stage and numerous albums have been recorded over the decades, from Pete Seeger to Dizzy Gillespie. Just walking into a space that’s not only held such immense talent but has also been the foundation of many creative projects was inspiring in itself. My objective was met before I even found my seat! Then the tribute to Chinua Achebe began.

Michael Cunnigham delivered a sweet introduction of the Nigerian author and his 50-year-old book, Things Fall Apart, followed by one touching speech after another from the likes of Chris Abani, Ha Jin, Edwidge Danticat and many more. One of my favorite quotes of the evening, for all you writers out there, came from Colum McCann who compared Achebe’s words to Yates’ via what he called the “world link” saying, “The best words unravel and remake the familiar. Chinua Achebe opened his window and made local universal.” Lesson in point: “If you don’t like a story you read, tell your own.” (And here I am blogging in the night, thanks Colum!)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, a fellow Nigerian writer, similarly said that until she read Things Fall Apart she didn’t know people like her could exist in books. She added that before this book “Africa was always defined by what it was not, what it did not have, how it was dying, not how it lived… Chinua Achebe changed that.” To be honest, I’m not sure how much that has changed in the larger scheme of things as the majority of what we hear about Africa still fits into the said categories of what the continent is lacking as opposed to anything positive, but kudos to Achebe for entering a new frontier and voicing a more truthful reflection of Africa half a century ago, bravely paving the way for many writers to come.

All in all, it was far more inspiring of an event than I’d ever expected and we haven’t even gotten to the stars of the evening: Toni Morrison and Chinua Achebe. Turns out they were born the same year, 1931. Morrison was a supporter of Achebe from the minute he moved to NY having discovered his writings while pulling together an African Literature textbook for American public high schools years before her own work had been published. She once even arranged a reading of Things Fall Apart by her friend, Allen Ginsburg, but Achebe was too shy to attend the reading himself so he watched it on video later, from home.

Sitting alone, center stage, on this Tuesday night in The Town Hall, Achebe recalls this distant moment in life with a chuckle as he gazes out at a full house of admirers. “I sent the only manuscript from a mailbox in Nigeria to England where someone would ‘type it well’ but there was no guarantee I would see it ever again. Things Fall Apart brought me lots of good luck. That book wrote me,” he says. Immobilized at this age, he thanks us for honoring him one last time and waits to be wheeled away…

I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t read Things Fall Apart but I guarantee you that after attending the 50th Anniversary of the book and hearing about all that it has done for the literary world, it’s next on my list of recommended reads, how about you?

Event presented by the PEN American Center. For more info go to: www.pen.org


Continued...

Introducing Charise's Pieces

Being an enigma in my own right, I am fascinated by anything containing more than what meets the eye, things perplexing, people that don’t fit into a box. If it makes you uncomfortable it most likely makes me squirm with intrigue.

I yearn to understand everything, which keeps me overcommitted more often than not and by default, occasionally on what could be interpreted as the flaky side despite the fact that flaky people unnerve me to no end.

In the recent years I have become nearsighted like the rest of my family. I didn’t inherit the big, sparkly-white teeth or the cleavage on the female side but like many relatives I am left-handed and even somewhat ambidextrous.

When I wear my hair down, 90% of my conversations that day will revolve around the topic of hair. As a result, I rarely wear my hair down and India Arie’s song “I Am Not My Hair” holds a special place in my heart.

I went to art high school (OCHSA), didn’t learn my lesson the first time and continued my studies at art college (Tisch) and now I have enough debt to keep me working the rest of my life in anything but art so I can pay the bills. Oh, just kidding. If only turning off the artiste inside was that easy. ;-)

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Meet Esme

Hi. I'm Esme. This is my first year in New York. Before this, I lived in western Mass. People often tell me that I am a hermit because I rarely leave my apartment. This is sort of true. Don't worry, I don't have a weird yarn collection or anything. When I do leave my apartment, I have the weirdest experiences. In my articles, I plan to chronicle the weird people and situations I experience. So, "if you like pena Colada and getting lost in the rain," then you will likely enjoy my stories.
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What up, gay?

So, you walk into your corner coffee shop and see a lanky twenty-something year old wearing a Dave Matthews shirt, sipping his mocha. Immediately, you know one thing. That guy has got some cream in his cup. Confused? Don’t be. I am not talking about dairy supplements. What I am saying is that homeboy is a gay. That’s right, a gay. Until recently, I was never afraid to call them, the homos that is, as I saw them. That girl with the Birkenstocks, lezzy. That guy with the bull-cut, total queer. How did I get my knowledge? I am part of the club and as they say, “it takes one to know one.”

Throughout college, I was unabashed about my skill. I outed strangers and called men in nylon “girl.” Why not, their exterior implored me to. However, since then, something has changed. The outside semi-adult world is different. Most of us are chained to these weird-obstacles called “jobs” and the strange social environment that they create. Oh, the gays are still there; but, due to this weird thing called “professionalism”, YOU and I must now pretend these people, or better said, these identities don’t out-rightly exist. A new hurdle now has arisen, specifically, when do we know it is ok to recognize that someone at work is gay?

A friend of mine had this very quandary a week ago. Let me elaborate. My friend and a co-worker spent some time together over the weekend. They had dinner, he outed himself and then, as is expected, they went to a bar to check out guys. The following week, my friend saw her co-worker eating lunch with what she assumed was one of his close peers. My friend sat down and recounted the events of their weekend to the peer—men, bar—all of it.

Later, she said that she was surprised when the co-worker asked her not to out him to fellow employees. What could she do? My friend was stumped. Had her co-worker signaled that his sexuality was an untouchable topic? Were there hints? What was she to do?

Reviewing the situation, I have decided to say, no! No, there are no standards for this kind of shit. We cannot be expected to mix the moors of when it is or is not acceptable to share our gay-consciousness. Instead, I have decided to put together a review of inner-office gay code.

In this code, the first step is recognizing your gay at work. This can be a hazy issue. Let’s be honest, contrary to popular opinion, gays don’t just divide into Melissa Etheridge followers and Gloria-Estefan want-to-be’s. Gays come in all forms and haircuts. However, as is the same with any community, there are some reliable clues to look for if in question about whose team your buddy bats for. First and foremost: haircuts. This is the cheat sheet to your gay, or should I say your sexually anonymous co-worker.

My rule of thumb is to compare this person’s haircut to your peers. Without the body, ask yourself would this haircut go better on a boy or a girl? If you find yourself crossing genders, thinking that Jill’s haircut would seem more ‘’normal” on Jake, then that’s a pretty good clue that something is a little queer. Some people might bring up the new trend of men in shaggy do’s. I say if you’re unsure, ask your co-worker if he likes Tori Amos. If he says yes, you know Tori isn’t the only fairy.

My second rule of thumb is shoes. What type of footwear does your friend prefer? For women, loafers and sneakers are a dead-giveaway. Ask yourself, does she look like she would wear these shoes in middle school? If so, she’s a homo. For men, most any shoe that is well cleaned is evidence of him siding same-sex tendencies. Does he look like he has put time into his footwear? If you think yes, or maybe, or even if you are re-reading this passage for clarity, most likely he has a gay-vibe.
So, now you think or know or hope, that your co-worker is a gay. What do you do? In college, I would have said act but, unfortunately, this job world calls for something called “privacy.” Until this person outs themselves to you, you have to bit the bullet and wait. If you are like me and like to expedite conversations, I’d suggest dropping hints about your acceptance of gays and or gay issues. That way, if your friend feels inclined to share, she or he knows you are ready and waiting. Whatever you do, DO NOT talk about your “gay friends.” No one wants to be your new “gay friend.”

If your co-worker, in the case of my friend, has come out to you, give yourself a pat on the back. Half your quandary is solved. Your co-worker evidently feels fine, or at least ambivalent, with you knowing his or her “private life.” At this point, it is acceptable to ask your gay how he or she feels about work privacy. If you want to play it aloof, you can survey what your friend reveals about himself or herself at work. For example, if lesbian Lisa talks to George about her girlfriend. It is likely safe, for you to reference Lisa’s sexuality to George. If Lisa does not directly talk about her sexuality at work or refers to people by vague pronouns or as ‘friends’; then, leave Lisa’s private life alone. Over all let the gays pop their own coming-out cherries. As Judy said, “It’s my fucking rainbow anyway.”

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Deceased Environmental Grandma

Note: This was posted to my friend "Sean Miller's" MySpace page. He's given me permission to reprint it here.

My grandma (Nana) died over the weekend. Don't be sad, she was 91, and was lucid, mobile, and well taken care of until her massive heart attack. We should all be so lucky…

As is customary, I reflected over her life during the last few days. For those of my friends interested in sustainable living, I thought I could hold her up as sort of a tribute, an example of environmental consciousness, and a role model for the "real" environmental movement today.

Let's get some things straight first. Nana was a conservative Catholic who went to church daily until her death, voted for GWB twice, and taught us how to say the Rosary. She was not a role model for the typical liberal intelligentsia. But she raised a family adherent to the principles of sustainability, moderation, and delayed gratification long before it was popular, or even defined.

Nana lived through the Great Depression, growing up one of 8 children to a dirt-poor immigrant Slovak tenant farmer family in Appalachia. Before it was even popular, she was saving produce containers, rubber bands, and any household item with any sort of utility. There was a succession of clothing in my family. New clothes would become hand me downs. Hand me downs, after they no longer could be mended, would become hand-hemmed dishtowels. Dishtowels would turn into kitchen and household rags. The final stage would be shop rags for my Grandpa's well drilling business. I am sure my mother and my uncle could tour the garage today and identify their 5th grade era clothing.

Nana kept a garden. And an assortment of pigs and chickens. All on a one acre lot. Hers was a model of sustainability. Mom and uncle Mike would literally "hoe a row" every day over the summer. Nana grew all the vegetables that the family would eat through the summer: in the fall they would can plenty to last through the winter. Organic residue would be fed to the pigs: the chickens ranged over the yard, though I suppose their feed was probably supplemented also through the neighbor's corn. When a pig was slaughtered, everything was used. Blood sausage was made, and it was exactly what it sounds like. Needless for me to elucidate further, the cycle of food residue-compost-protein was maintained in an organic cycle emulated even today by the best of the Soy FACE farms.

Nana's consumerism, or actually, lack thereof, was bred by her childhood economic circumstances that shaped her life. She and my Grandpa could identify edible mushrooms from thirty feet (a task that takes me 20 minutes and a dichotomous key), knew the best berry patches, and between the two of them, could create anything, from pipe, to clothes, crafts, xmas gifts, quilts etc from scratch. Even after my grandpa died, Nana would heat her small house (which she and my Grandpa built) with wood from the surrounding forests. Kindling of course, consisted of the pile newspapers and other burnables she stockpiled. Finally, around age 80, she switched full time to the oil furnace that they used as an emergency back-up, only after we worried about her hauling wood.

For those of you have actually calculated your ecological footprint through various web sites, I am certain that hers would fall under ½ and acre. She raised 2 healthy children and roughly in this much of working area. The rest was ornamental grass and my Grandpa's workshop.

The modern environmental movement has seemed to have been somewhat corrupted by consumerism. The dominant stereotype seems to be a sort of modern Yuppie (I have seen it referred to as Yuppie 2.0), an environmentally pseudo-conscious superconsumer who seems to focus on consumption. Instead of people minimizing purchases, the new pseudo hippie seems to love purchasing the newest, most visible symbol of environmentalism (new aluminum Sigg bottle, or organic trader joe shopping job, recycled glassware made of old pepsi bottles, and organic produce flown in at an incredible fossil fuel cost from south America). Surreptitiously, it seems, that well-intentioned people have been caught up in the glamour of consumerism.

Nana would never have been comfortable as any role model, especially for something such as environmentalism. But such things that were a manner of living for her, like growing her own food in a sustainable system, making clothes from rolls of fabric, and extremely limiting consumer tendencies through limited consumption and maximized reuse.

It leads me to ask, who is the better role model for sustainable living? Certainly my stereotype of the well meaning but hypocritical pseudo hippie who buys the $6 Ecuadorian pineapple at trader Joes and drives 25 mile home in some SUV at 20 miles per gallon comes off worse than my sainted Grandmother. Nana also lived at a time when the mother could and would stay home and run the household. But seriously, couldn't we all grow a couple more pots of tomatoes, or at least limit our consumption a little bit more?

I tried to identify people, outside of my most immediate family, who try to represent the principles Nana exemplified. While their politics really did differ (from extreme liberals to libertarians), the folks who garden/farm sustainably, make or reuse their clothes, can vegetables for the winter, and limit their consumerism tend to be cut from the same basic cloth (no pun intended). The big differences, politically/socially, tended to be whether they were devout or atheist, vegetarian or "carnitarian" (mostly vegetarian, but will eat game and fish that they personally harvest), or believed in individual responsibility vs. legislated welfare. Regardless of ideology, these people are somewhat isolated; fringed candidates from a majority world. It no longer, or maybe not ever, has been cool to live by the necessary provisions of a resource limited society. While this glue has bonded such a community, it remains split from society at large, mostly by those who still believe they can justify consumerism through a sustainable lens.

To wrap up, I look at the character of Nana, and the morals that she instilled in her children (my mother and uncle). Save. Save money by reusing and using land to its sustainable potential. Hone craft skills and personal talent. Educate yourself, but stay close to the soil. Though she believed in a deistic approach to farming, we can all acknowledge the custodial nature we can play to making our own lot or apartment balcony its own sustainable system. In all of our "superior" education though, we make mistakes in our consumer choices. I take quite a measure of joy in knowing that Nana, who was never educated past middle school, has ecologically trumped thousands of college and graduate students in the economy of consumerism.

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Beat the Devil

The scene: Club Europa, Williamsburg. My mental state: poor. Running on a mere three hours of sleep, and still not entirely over a hellish afternoon lost in the labyrinth of sadness that is New Jersey, I sat in the club with just two people: my current lady interest, and my friend who, apparently forgetting my fixation on this women, had decided to sleep with her the previous evening. Ouch. As a deluge of phone calls came in from friends apologizing for not being able to join our happy trio, and it became ever the more clear that the awkwardness induced by my company would not be assuaged, I slammed three drinks as fast as I could. Pleasantly tipsy, and spitefully determined to have a good time, I sat in anticipation for the main act of the evening: Beat the Devil.

Painfully awkward situations aside, I was reasonably sure that I was not to be disappointed. After all, Shilpa Ray, Beat the Devil's lead singer, had recently been described in Time Out New York as “New York City's best frontperson,” and Spin.com had raved that “listening to Beat the Devil is like taking your first punch in the face.” Not bad reviews, but would the show be enough to salvage the evening?

The two opening acts, whose names elude me at the moment (for good reason) were lukewarm at best, but I feigned interest in an attempt to avoid conversation with the happy couple. I sat, despondent, praying to Zues, Ra, Thor, anyone who would listen, really, that the main act would be good enough to rescue me from the Hell in which I found myself.

The transition in sets between the opening acts and Beat the Devil was the most excruciating part of the evening. In mere moments, I would discover whether I would salvage victory from the jaws of defeat, or if I would go home crushed and despondent. It was at this point that I noticed one of the band members setting up a theremin (for those of you not in the know, the theremin is a rather obscure electronic instrument designed in Russia in 1919, whose pitch is determined based on how far away the maestro's hand is from a metal pole). There was a light at the end of the tunnel! I don't know about you, but I have never seen an act sporting that marvel of Soviet avant-garde ingenuity that has failed to impress. I was soon to discover that Beat the Devil would be no exception.

At long last, the set began. Nearly every song, began with Ms. Ray pumping a harmonium (yeah, I had to wikipedia that one when I got home to figure out what the hell it was), building up sound and fury until critical mass, and then, BAM! The audience was awash in a sound that can, perhaps, best be described as a cross between Amy Winehouse and Sonic Youth. The trio chucked out blues riffs like candy on Halloween, and Ray clearly possesses Winehouse's ability to sing in a delightfully low and soulful tone, but their sound also had a distinctive grunge feel.

The instrumentation was the pinnacle of absurdity. I mean, really. Drums, a bass, a theremin, and a harmonium that, to be perfectly honest, looked like a baby coffin. But the main attraction was the voice of the lead singer. Ray's voice shifted without warning between the seductive allure of a siren and the demon-wail of a banshee. Such expressions of rage haven't been communicated through primal screams since Kurt Cobain got it into his head that blowing out his brains would be a good idea (Just kidding, we all know it was murder!).

“How is that sound coming out of her?!” the backstabbing asshole exclaimed. And indeed, it didn't seem to make sense. Here was this small, attractive, sweet looking woman channeling the screams of the damned, singing lyrics that can only be penned by the most disaffected of souls. She broke the tension between songs, casually cracking jokes with the band. But with the rhythmic pumping of the coffin-harmonium, she once again transformed, a process repeated time and time again until the climactic last song. It was as if Faye, from the massively underrated anime Cowboy Beebop, had her in mind when she uttered the phrase,“Like a demon from heaven, or an angel from hell.”

I left the two lovebirds to whisper sweet nothings into each others' ears at our table, and proceeded to the dance floor, where I rocked out like there was no tomorrow. From my new vantage point, I discovered that Ray wasn't the only impressive member of the group. The bass player rocked the theremin like I've never seen: on several occasions he swooped his hand towards the instrument with such intensity that I was sure he was going to smack the thing off its perch. Such catastrophe was averted by mere centimeters. The drummer seemed possessed, barely saying a word the whole set, instead gazing transfixedly at his drums/the floor.

Sadly, the set ended too quickly for my liking, and the EP that the band was selling after the show, which, as far as I could gather is their only release to date, fails to capture the intensity that the band had displayed in their live show. This is not to say that the EP is worthless: the first track, “Plea Bargain,” is catchy, and representative sampling of the band's work.

The show ended, and I proceeded to execute a skillful cockblock, ensuring that my two friends would be going home separately (without going too much into details, let's just say that a little scare-mongering concerning construction on selected subway lines can go a long way). But all you hopeless romantics out there needn't worry! They hooked up again a few nights later. On a happy note for me, though, to compensate for the seizure of this woman from me, my friend offered to supply me with several packs of cigarettes. In the end, everyone won!

So, in conclusion, if you want to see a live act good enough to make you forget that your friend is a lecherous douche bag, see Beat the Devil. They, according to their super cool website, are heading out to Vegas for a time, but don't worry. They'll be back.

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It's like Mexico, but you can drink the water... for $5

¿Puede usted sentir la Hacienda?

According to Wikipedia, Hacienda is a Spanish word for "estate" or "plantation." Now, most kids from the middle west like I associate the word "plantation" with "evil southern slavedrivers." That, of course, is unfair, a result of only hearing the word used in American agro-historical context, namely pre-Civil War southern state economy; additionally, I've never set foot on or seen a plantation, unless we have yet another word for it in Ohio that I'm unaware of. (Farm?) And while plantations still exist, and I'm fairly sure there aren't any slaves on them, I do know (thanks to 4th grade social studies) that plantations are BAD.

So back to SlaveLand... I mean Hacienda. There used to be a mediocre Mexican restaurant at the Erie Commons in Mentor (lemme hear ya in da) OH named Hacienda, I think mainly because the English aesthetics of the word imply "Mexico." It's certainly not Americanese. Thankfully, I'm bringing you an interlude from the weekend not from the North Coast but instead the East Village, where this not-quite-Mexican bar serves drinks to the young hipster (I assume, as the EV is where I hear hipster wildlife congregates) on most occasions and, on this night, to a group of 30 lawyers.

I am not a lawyer. I do know one whose birthday is Tuesday, though, and lovely girl that she is invited me to her weekend preparty. Big dudes at the door check my ID, ask me if I'm here for a private party, me and my two dude friends. I say yes, knowing full well that if it's crowded inside that I'm out of luck. There are reasons why three guys don't try to get into bars all at once, and those reasons made me wish I'd left Dane at home. And Tim. Yes, I wish I'd come by myself. But the big dudes let us in. I was astonished. Then I saw the place was empty, and immediately turned up my nose.

Walking in, there's a lovely free coatcheck that I was happy to use. The bar is long, the decor is red, red, red, with booths to the left and the bar to the right, and a private, semi-curtained room in the back that seems like had we gotten drunker might have turned into the boom boom room with sofas (couches? Diff?) lining the walls and a personal toilet for the back room groupies. That was in its own room, of course, you get the idea.

Oh yeah- we pregamed at Welcome to the Johnsons', a local sub-dive in the Lower East. There's nothing quite like the constant funk in the air at this place, like a semi-potent mix of stale beer and armpit. $2 PBRs, though, and a crowd about as unpretentious as it gets. Yes, it's full of proles. Proles listening to pre-Nevermind Nirvana as an upper. Some guy bought us all beers after I agreed to take his picture with his girlfriend for him. Grand gesture, no, but neither is $6 in beer.

Back to Hacienda- wait, nothing good happened there. I asked for a Negra Modelo and I settled for a Bud. They should be put out of business just for that. It's a frickin bar called Hacienda! How could they not have the greatest Mexican beer in the history of Mexico? Or at least the one I wanted?

That's just my opinion, of course. Dane never wanted to come. Get this- he called Tim, bitched about Tim coming to this party, invited himself along when he couldn't come up with anything better to do, then complained every instant he was there. Eventually Tim relented and allowed Dane to lead him to 151, which will get its own review at some point. Dane is such a douche.

Music was standard Hip Hop, which means minimum 5 years old. We were more in a 30-year-old Journey mood, and he accommodated for roughly two songs ("Don't Stop Believin' " and something else.) Then we were back to the 'hood, and the girls wanted to rock to the '80s some more. So off the the Alphabet Lounge and their DJ attraction.

Now, I'm a fairly reasonable guy, I think. I reason that there are roughly half a million bars in this city that will let me walk in and pay $5+ for a given $0.25 beer without a hassle at the door or a cover charge. The Alphabet Lounge is not one of them. I was happy the girls were allowed to get in free (scratch that, I was furious) but a $10 cover and there isn't even any live music? Just a DJ spinning 80s. Be serious, right? Well, the girls were pleased. One of them nearly mauled me, but I was heady enough and sober enough to fend her off. Anyway, I like the layout of this place, with a lower dance floor with a bar and an upper tier floor for hot chicks and drunk guys. Naturally, our group fit in well in the upper tier. Check it out if you like cover charges.

I only slept until 4pm, so it must have been a pretty tame evening. No severe regrets, except the $60 round of SoCoLime shots at Alphabet City. I can absorb that, though. Until next time... get into trouble!


Welcome to the Johnsons'
123 Rivington St

New York, NY 10002-2312
Phone: (212) 420-9911

Hacienda at 40C

40 Ave C
New York, NY 10009
Phone: (212) 466-0800

Alphabet Lounge

104 Ave C
New York, NY 10009
Phone: (212) 780-0202

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Introducing the Asus Eee PC

I am typing to you from a clunky, 8 pound mega laptop with a power cord that needs to be propped up on a book to function. One unintentional jiggle, and the screen goes dark. All communication functions are down until I reboot, wait - a little longer - before the power light feebly flickers back on. The 17" screen and "spacious" keyboard appealed to me two years ago when I purchased this behemoth computer, but both have proven burdensome. If only there was an ultra mobile laptop that would be small enough and sleek enough to take anywhere, a sort of futuristic mini-computer that's fast and efficient, while still being compact.

Introducing the Ultra Mobile PCs. If you haven't heard of the Eee PC yet, you are in for a treat. Taiwanese based hardware manufacturer, Asus, released the Eee PC in October 2007, and computer geeks everywhere have been scrambling to get their hands on one. EeePC stands for "easy to learn, easy to work, and easy to play." At just over 2lbs, 7 inches, and priced between $299-$450 (depending on the model) it is easy to understand why it is stirring up so much excitement.


The Eee PC is part of a new class of notebooks, called netbooks, that are capable of surfing the internet, and accessing web-based applications, but do not not store information on your hard-drive like traditional notebooks. Instead, users save information directly on the web. This adds to the speed and efficiency of the devices, because they are not bogged down by stored data.

One criticism of the Ultra-Mobiles is that many adult users feel uncomfortable using the keyboards, which are significantly smaller than the ones found on average-sized laptops. A further concern is the Linux-based platform which does not support Microsoft Office or Adobe Creative Suite programs. Instead, the netbook comes with free copies of open-source software like OpenOffice and AbiWord, which are great, but require some adjustment. (It is possible to override the Linux system and replace it with Windows XP, but you will need to purchase it separately and install it using an external DVD drive - which is also not included.)
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Attention All You Lushes

I often wonder what it would have been like to live through the 1950s, a decade when the damaging effects of cigarettes and martinis were still suspect cautionary tales. It was a time when men indulged in 4-martini lunches, and women gathered in neighbors' smoking rooms without suffering from the unsavory guilt that we children of the Boomers will forever endure. By the 1980s, it was impossible to ignore the thousands of scientific studies correlating cigarettes and alcohol with blackened lungs and scarred livers. Now, another burden of knowledge is befalling our generation. Cocktails aren't just bad for your liver, they can also make you fat.

A new law requires restaurants that have 15 or more locations to publish calorie information for all beverages. Public health experts predict that publishing calorie facts will lead people to make healthier choices about what they drink. As much as I regret not being born into an era of guilt-free indulgence, jello molds, and Elvis, I am grateful to be living in a world where information is freely dispersed and heart attacks at 40 are uncommon. Here is a calorie guide to your favorite cocktails, do with it what you will:

Mai Tai: 350 calories
White Russian: 425 calories
Pina Colada: 650 calories
Margarita: 740 calories
Long Island Iced Tea: 775 calories

(*These figures were reported by CBS News as the average caloric content of cocktails that are served at chain restaurants like Olive Garden and Fridays where giant 16 oz servings are the norm. Most New York bars serve much smaller drinks, and average half to a third as many calories.)



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Meet a Writer For Dinner (and Maybe More!)

Tuskers

I'm a pseudo-architect living a semi-life in an intentionally consequence-limited environment full of people not exactly like me. Sometimes sage, occasionally sinister, and potentially obscene, I have modest goals for this blog, such as the avoidance of weak constructions, comma splices, dangling prepositions, and pedantophilia.

Who am I kidding? I'm a fucking cartoon.

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my computer is broken.

My computer is broken so, it can only work when on its side. consequently, this makes it hard to write.
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Meet the Writers

Daniel

Daniel is a 22-year-old NYC non-native. He is a film school graduate, and works very, very hard doing very important things that are probably too complicated and important to be elaborated upon. He is looking forward to joining the esteemed legions of people who really do plan to write more, but were distracted by a particularly interesting news bite on Gothamist, and who now must run to catch the 1-train, as there's never any express service on weekends, and time is very short, so I'm sure you'll understand if I cut this short.
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Meet the Writers

Elana

This year, I am working in the public schools as part of the New York City Teaching Fellowship. I am originally from a lovely green suburb of Ohio called Shaker Heights, and I am looking forward to bringing a liberal Mid-Western perspective to the local scene. I will visit little-known performance venues, hidden parks, restaurants, etc. and bring you honest critiques. I will also be writing political pieces about the state of New York City public schools, from an insiders' perspective. I am interested in hearing about your experiences and your opinions too! Please add your two cents whenever you have something to say. My hope is that Fast Forward will ignite the voices of young New Yorkers and unite the blogging community.

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