Together, we can rid the world of those pesky cookies!
8/31/08
8/30/08
Notes on Things...
Standing in the subway the other day, I noticed a fabulous South Asian man wearing what would be considered in this country an excessive (and excessively feminine) amount of jewelry on his right hand. He had on both a pinkie ring with a pearly white stone and a ring on his index finger with a shiny, multi-faceted clear stone that sparkled brightly even under the subway's dull fluorescent lights. He also sported on the same wrist a bracelet made of red string punctuated by about 8 or 10 finely filigreed silver half-shells holding inside each pair some kind of nut or rough stone or even dried pot bud or incense or something. Little brown wads, contained inside intricate silver cages, strung on silky red thread. The whole thing was mesmerizing, and I almost asked him if I could take a picture of his hand. Almost. But I did not want to make him uncomfortable. For the record, he also wore a tight red polo shirt over his prodigious man-baby and red nikes with the bouncy-bouncy things in the heel. All in all, definitely a fabulous candidate for my imaginary version of the "spotted in New York" fashion blog.
The fixation I had on this man's jewelry distracted me, for a good 20 minutes (long enough to get from 34th/Harold Sq. to Atlantic/Pacific), from thinking about the many piles of things I have stacked up on every surface of my tiny room. And then, it reminded me all over again of all the things I have acquired. And then, I started thinking about how much these things - much as the marketers and peddlers intended - work like talismans to ensure me of the continuity of my identity. And then, I remembered how disconcerting it is to find the little stashes of things that I have let sink in the swampy marshlands of memory and my mom's basement but that had figured so prominently in my identities in former lives. Big, colorful earrings. Fancy 40s-style dresses. Heels and heels and heels.
It's not just gender, either. There was a time when I stashed art supplies like I was starting a summer camp. Old journals and sketchbooks were squirreled away as if some art historian would need them later to trace the filaments of my brilliant career back to the bored suburban childhood of an accidental immigrant. (That's how I saw myself.) Letters were bound in packets and wrapped in twine. Photographs in shoeboxes. Syllabi, class notes, xeroxed articles - a category of projection unto itself.
I have been told and get the sense myself that "Russians" like to "dress up" - meaning they press their pants, they wear appropriate footwear, they do not leave the house in their pajamas, even if the outing does not involve a meeting with anyone they know. I've heard that "Russians" can identify "Americans" by the casualness of the "Americans'" dress, the lack of restraint or consideration of what others might think. Bluejeans, flip-flops, no makeup, hair undone. Or, what my mother calls, "pulled out of you-know-where." (How will those girls find husbands?) Clearly, some part of it is still deeply tied up in gender and courtship, both at the local (I need to find my husband) and the societal (Look what our women look like!) levels. On the other hand, subcultures abound, and my recent limited adventures with the pictorial side of the Russian internet has furnished glimpses of all kinds of gender- and mainstream-nonconformity from emo boys to extreme bike-riding girls. And then, there's always the flagrance of Russian fashion (as occasionally documented by kg, for example) to bring a little levity to the situation.
Where does all this leave me? Well, with a bunch of stacks of things, daring me to fit them all into two 50-lb suitcases. A serious case of "what if?" Or "what will be?" And my grandmother's amber necklace. (It was not purchased from a store that sees me as a demographic. My mom says it has healing qualities. Whether or not it registers to others (I highly doubt my reading of the subway guy's bling in any way matches his desired self-presentation), I see it as post-gender. Though it is clearly not post-identity.)
The fixation I had on this man's jewelry distracted me, for a good 20 minutes (long enough to get from 34th/Harold Sq. to Atlantic/Pacific), from thinking about the many piles of things I have stacked up on every surface of my tiny room. And then, it reminded me all over again of all the things I have acquired. And then, I started thinking about how much these things - much as the marketers and peddlers intended - work like talismans to ensure me of the continuity of my identity. And then, I remembered how disconcerting it is to find the little stashes of things that I have let sink in the swampy marshlands of memory and my mom's basement but that had figured so prominently in my identities in former lives. Big, colorful earrings. Fancy 40s-style dresses. Heels and heels and heels.
It's not just gender, either. There was a time when I stashed art supplies like I was starting a summer camp. Old journals and sketchbooks were squirreled away as if some art historian would need them later to trace the filaments of my brilliant career back to the bored suburban childhood of an accidental immigrant. (That's how I saw myself.) Letters were bound in packets and wrapped in twine. Photographs in shoeboxes. Syllabi, class notes, xeroxed articles - a category of projection unto itself.
I have been told and get the sense myself that "Russians" like to "dress up" - meaning they press their pants, they wear appropriate footwear, they do not leave the house in their pajamas, even if the outing does not involve a meeting with anyone they know. I've heard that "Russians" can identify "Americans" by the casualness of the "Americans'" dress, the lack of restraint or consideration of what others might think. Bluejeans, flip-flops, no makeup, hair undone. Or, what my mother calls, "pulled out of you-know-where." (How will those girls find husbands?) Clearly, some part of it is still deeply tied up in gender and courtship, both at the local (I need to find my husband) and the societal (Look what our women look like!) levels. On the other hand, subcultures abound, and my recent limited adventures with the pictorial side of the Russian internet has furnished glimpses of all kinds of gender- and mainstream-nonconformity from emo boys to extreme bike-riding girls. And then, there's always the flagrance of Russian fashion (as occasionally documented by kg, for example) to bring a little levity to the situation.
Where does all this leave me? Well, with a bunch of stacks of things, daring me to fit them all into two 50-lb suitcases. A serious case of "what if?" Or "what will be?" And my grandmother's amber necklace. (It was not purchased from a store that sees me as a demographic. My mom says it has healing qualities. Whether or not it registers to others (I highly doubt my reading of the subway guy's bling in any way matches his desired self-presentation), I see it as post-gender. Though it is clearly not post-identity.)
8/29/08
Poll
What would you do if you knew there is a job you would be a rockstar in, but you also knew that it's only because that job requires you to use superpowers that you may not be so proud of?
For example, lawyer and the super-power of bitchdom and passive-aggressive/aggressive-aggressive letter-writing and the smackdown. Or, archivist and the super-power of anal retention, writing neatly, and controlling people by requiring them to talk to you using complicated numbering systems and withholding materials.
Should we accept and embrace our evil super-powers, or should we strive for something higher, even if it requires learning skills that may not come so naturally (like interacting with people without the intervention of official protocols)? What is to be done? Just wonderin'.
For example, lawyer and the super-power of bitchdom and passive-aggressive/aggressive-aggressive letter-writing and the smackdown. Or, archivist and the super-power of anal retention, writing neatly, and controlling people by requiring them to talk to you using complicated numbering systems and withholding materials.
Should we accept and embrace our evil super-powers, or should we strive for something higher, even if it requires learning skills that may not come so naturally (like interacting with people without the intervention of official protocols)? What is to be done? Just wonderin'.
8/28/08
Twins with the World!
Look who I found on my way to AM's this afternoon...
Highland Park, is this a subtle hint?
Bonus image (zoom in for 3D effecktz):
Highland Park, is this a subtle hint?
Bonus image (zoom in for 3D effecktz):
8/27/08
The Solution to the Puzzle Was...
Jellyfish. Brighton Beach is full of jellyfish. And delicious buckwheat. Nina Simone was a gift.
8/23/08
The End of August Is My Favorite Month
Last week of August=insomniac plan-making delirium.
Goals for the year:
1) Write a dissertation
2) Get to know Moscow by bike
3) Come back with a dissertation and use the bamboo growing in my mom's backyard to build a bamboo bike to ride around Brooklyn
Here we go!
Goals for the year:
1) Write a dissertation
2) Get to know Moscow by bike
3) Come back with a dissertation and use the bamboo growing in my mom's backyard to build a bamboo bike to ride around Brooklyn
Here we go!
8/20/08
8/18/08
Audience Participation
Hello, children. Are you sitting comfortably? Then MasterGote'll begin.
Firstly, a recommendation: Choke City at Fringe NYC. Looks like it's playing one more time this Saturday. I would describe it, but the About Me section at the above link pretty much tells you everything. I will just add that it had some pretty funny stand-up routines and some well-sketched out, satisfyingly complex characters. And, of course, support local theAtre!
Secondly, how do you like this new New Wave look? MasterGote is trying out a little retro style, but he does not want to hurt your eyesies, so please let him know if seeing a green screen the several times a day you accidentally begin typing nytimes but end up here instead starts to take its toll. MasterGote promises to keep bringing you breaking news and insightful analysis, despite the datedness of this here rag's colour scheme.
And finally, MasterGote has some bookshelves to bestow upon you. One is tall, light, and narrow and one is short, dark, and squat. (Just like MasterGote and Lamar!) But the shelves, unlike your faithful correspondent and his paramour, do not care whether they remain a couple. Please give them a home.
Firstly, a recommendation: Choke City at Fringe NYC. Looks like it's playing one more time this Saturday. I would describe it, but the About Me section at the above link pretty much tells you everything. I will just add that it had some pretty funny stand-up routines and some well-sketched out, satisfyingly complex characters. And, of course, support local theAtre!
Secondly, how do you like this new New Wave look? MasterGote is trying out a little retro style, but he does not want to hurt your eyesies, so please let him know if seeing a green screen the several times a day you accidentally begin typing nytimes but end up here instead starts to take its toll. MasterGote promises to keep bringing you breaking news and insightful analysis, despite the datedness of this here rag's colour scheme.
And finally, MasterGote has some bookshelves to bestow upon you. One is tall, light, and narrow and one is short, dark, and squat. (Just like MasterGote and Lamar!) But the shelves, unlike your faithful correspondent and his paramour, do not care whether they remain a couple. Please give them a home.
8/17/08
8/13/08
Notes on Sports
Because he is patriotic and keeps up with current affairs, MasterGote says YES to women's beach volleyball.
PresidentGote is in agreement!
PresidentGote is in agreement!
8/9/08
Veto
Family obligation obligated me to eat, for the first time in my life, a cheburek.
Although this is not an image of the very cheburek that I consumed, these pimple-faced, meat-filled twinsies resemble the very one very well. And I trust you will not be surprised when I tell you that the verdict is in:
Although this is not an image of the very cheburek that I consumed, these pimple-faced, meat-filled twinsies resemble the very one very well. And I trust you will not be surprised when I tell you that the verdict is in:
VETO!!!!!
8/3/08
In Memoriam
MasterGote mourns the passing of fellow bearded Defender of Values and Denoucer of Vices. Rest in peace, Aleksandr Isaevich Solzhenitsyn (1918-2008).
8/1/08
Further Notes on Anonymity
Mastergote will not lie, he is afraid of the internets. He fears their slippery tentacles and their grabby hooks. However, Mastergote also knows the secret of internet anonymity, the achilles heel of virtual connectivity. That achilles heel is Google!
Google, dear readers, does not know anything *first hand* and only relies on second-hand information, a.k.a. "links," a.k.a. "hearsay." Google does not bother with real sense-experience, preferring, instead, to let the world do its feeling and thinking for it. Google does not know that Mastergote exists (try it!), and so Mastergote can continue saying goodbye to his arm and deconstructing his sausagey leg casings in relative peace.
And so, feeling protected by a shroud of second-hand silence, Mastergote has joined a nudist colony. Meet Mastergote's new friend, Lamar:
Lamar does not even have a blog. We are in love.
Google, dear readers, does not know anything *first hand* and only relies on second-hand information, a.k.a. "links," a.k.a. "hearsay." Google does not bother with real sense-experience, preferring, instead, to let the world do its feeling and thinking for it. Google does not know that Mastergote exists (try it!), and so Mastergote can continue saying goodbye to his arm and deconstructing his sausagey leg casings in relative peace.
And so, feeling protected by a shroud of second-hand silence, Mastergote has joined a nudist colony. Meet Mastergote's new friend, Lamar:
Lamar does not even have a blog. We are in love.
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