Englishman in New York

That title is borrowed from an email doing the rounds at the moment, and that I received this morning. It starts off with a weak joke about how civilization began with the invention of beer and consequently humanity was split into two groups: Liberals and Conservatives. Liberals are credited with “[the] domestication of cats, the trade union, … group therapy … and the concept of democratic voting” (those evil Liberals) and are identified by what they eat and drink (tofu, sushi, French food, imported beer and white wine), by what they do for a living (social workers, journalists, hair dressers, Hollywood dreamers) and by either being women or woman-like. Conservatives, on the other hand, eat red meat and potatoes and have manly jobs like big game hunter, rodeo cowboy, lumberjacks, construction worker, corporate executive and soldier.

What struck me about this email was not how obnoxious it is, but how it fits nicely into the current received notion of what a Liberal is in this country. Liberals are the wine quaffing homos who want to live off the welfare state and Conservatives are the real people of America, the working johns who earn a living. So how did this happen? How did the American right manage to convince the working people of this country that they should look to the Conservatives to help them improve their lives?

The left are complicit in creating this image. George Orwell wrote that “the worst advertisement for Socialism is its adherents”, and it’s a sentiment that would spring to mind when I would be accosted by Socialist Workers (a political party in the UK) on the Holloway Road in London, screeching out their dogma in voices like sawing sheet metal. I felt the same disgust when I saw a man chalking ‘Bush Out’ in Union Square, but replacing the ‘S’ with a swastika, while the political puppeteers make ‘jokes’ about Bush and Cheney in high-pitched voices. These people seem to represent me and my beliefs in the popular imagination, but in fact do no more for me than grate my nerves.

Real, serious socialists (or leftists, or liberals – whatever you want to call yourself) need to reclaim the political arguments in this country and remind everyone who earns less than $100,000 a year that their interests are not best served by a party who wants to reduce the tax burden for the rich and free corporations of all those icky regulations that stop them from hammering every last drop of worth out of their employees before letting them free to fend for themselves in sickness or in old age. And the next time someone asks you how you feel about gay marriage tell them not as strongly as you do about America being below about thirty-five other countries in the infant mortality world rankings, below Cuba even.

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We went out for a lovely meal on Saturday night, here in Brooklyn. It seems you have to spend real money to get a proper sausage in this town, but that’s OK – you can spend all the money you like in London and get nowhere near a decent burger. It was such a nice, mild evening that we decided to sit outside and we had a mostly pleasant time that was occasionally ruined by horn-honking drivers having their progress delayed by at least one fourteenth of a second by someone else pulling over. This is on Union Street, by the way, which is a two way street on which the opportunities to pass a double-parked car are frequent, especially at nine on a Saturday.

The excessive honking was one of the first things that struck me about New York when I moved here and I feel a little spasm of fury every time somebody parps at a light just gone green. And this phenomenon is not confined just to New York. I myself was the target of some energetic car quacking as I double parked in a sleepy loch-side village in Scotland, and on a Sunday. As I type this drivers audibly assault each other outside my apartment building. What’s the rush? Really, where’s the fire?

This is a bit of leap (there are smaller steps in my brain) but I think it’s all down to the American Dream. In its noblest form it’s a dream of equality, self-sufficiency and fairness, but like any good idea it can get tinkered around with just a little bit and made to mean the exact opposite of what it originally stood for. For lots of people the Bill of Rights has become a Bill of Entitlements. Gone are the responsibilities that go with freedom and instead they are replaced with what we are owed, and sod everyone else. Never mind that the parked car might be waiting for its owner to pick up an inhaler for a child who has to sing at his Grandmother’s hospital bedside, ‘So You Think You Can Dance?’ is starting in ten minutes! Or maybe I could just relax and enjoy my sausage.

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Today was hard work my god. Two transatlantic flights would have been less stressful. My mother decided it was time for young Billy to venture into the big city. We’ve never taken him beyond the cosseted environs of our lovely Park Slope and I felt uneasy from the offset.

First we had to get him in the subway, that meant using the gate instead of the turnstile. There were two gates and I naturally chose the wrong one and was yelled at. We took the 2-3 and changed at Nevins Street for the 4-5. We found out after waiting 15 minutes in the boiling station that the 4-5 wasn’t running. So we got back on the 2-3 and had to walk to our destination. A problem for my gran as she has polymyalgia rheumatica in her hip and leg and can’t make it far. We had lunch sat outside a pub at South Street Seaport, a popular tourist trap.

We were served green french fries with our meals. Soon after the meals arrived it started raining and we had to huddle under umbrellas whilst we ate.

Then my dad and I had to walk round the block 15 times whilst the ladies looked in Baby Gap.

Our initial plan had been to go to Ellis Island. I thought that had been abandoned after all the messing around we’d done. No such luck. My mum and dad said they’d check and see if it was too late to go, which I assumed was a token effort as it was after 4. They returned with big grins and 5 tickets. Now we had to take Billy on a ferry. We had five minutes to catch it but they had us remove all metal objects from our persons and put them in boxes to be scanned (like the airport). We even had to collapse Billy’s pram and put that through the scanner. This took so long we missed the boat. So we stood in a queue with hundreds of chirpy tourists all trying to push in front of us, Billy threatening to howl all the while. My brain was screaming. I considered grabbing Billy and running as fast as I could back to Brooklyn.

We got to Ellis Island as they were closing up. We did, however, manage to get tea and cakes from the slowest server in the history of mankind. If she’d gone any slower her arms would have atrophied and fallen off. Oily pigeons loitered close by as we greedily ate our cakes and gulped down our hot tea. The 7 green chips we’d had for lunch hadn’t filled us up properly. I took several swipes at the pigeons but they knew I didn’t have it in me to really wallop them and just bobbed out of my way momentarily. One of them had the most frightening red-rimmed eyes you’ve ever seen.

Billy was in drunken sailor mode when Heidi tried to feed him, bouncing off her and flailing his arms around wildly. The moment he settled and started to drink we were ushered off the island by security. Heidi couldn’t really feed him on the boat and when we got back to Battery Park her, my mum and my granny grabbed a cab and left me and my dad saddled with the grumpy hungry baby. (Cabs only take 4 people and we had no car seat for Billy). We hurried towards the subway, choosing the R this time as the 4-5 wasn’t running. When we’d carried Billy down all the steps we were informed that Brooklyn bound R trains weren’t running either and we’d have to go up to Canal Street and change there. If my brain had been screaming before I don’t know how to describe what was going on in there as we stood for 15 minutes in the rancid sweltering station waiting for a train to take us in the wrong direction.

We eventually made it to Canal Street and got an N over the Manhattan bridge. Unfortunately that dropped us off 2 miles from where my mum and dad were staying. I had to speed walk the distance as Billy was yelping for milk at the top of his voice. I just gave up on my dad; I left him for dust.

Half an hour later I had a slice of pizza in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other and the intense horror of our lovely family day out slowly faded from my ravaged mind.

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Radiskull & Devil Doll is one of my favorite animated cartoon series. In fact, it inspired me to produce my own animations. The R&DD series ended abruptly after just eight episodes when its creator, Joe Sparks left Shockwave.com (now AtomFilms), for whom he created the series. It was a sad day.

But the good news is that Sparks has been producing a new online animated cartoon series, Dicky & Jackie! Until recently, only a musical preview of the new series had been available online to watch.

But Joe Sparks has finally completed his first episode of Dicky & Jackie, “Meet Dicky”! It is not available to the public, but if you ask nicely, Joe will give you a sneak peek at the episode before he takes it live. Here are Joe’s instructions:

If you want an early peek at the first episode of Dicky & Jackie, WRITE ME at joesparks@joesparks.com, with THIS EXACT subject line:

Show Me DJ Episode One - MEET DICKY

Joe will reply with the secret URL for the cartoon. I really liked it, hope you do, too!

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Just 2 Guyz

vs.

Atari Crew Geeks

Which duo is nerdier, the kids from LA or the blokes from England?

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It seems fitting that my first post to EINY concerns the fulfillment yesterday of Tony Blair’s promise to change the rules of the game with respect to Britain’s historic tolerance of radical Islamists. In releasing a list of newly-punishable offenses, the British Home Office ignored the cautionary note sounded last week by Geoffrey Stone in the New York Times, which argued that a distinction should be drawn between glorification of terrorist violence and outright incitement. Instead, the Brits have proscribed fomenting, justifying or glorifying terrorist violence “in furtherance of particular beliefs,” whatever that means. If it’s just for the hell of it, then no problem?

Outlawing the justification of terrorist violence is a fairly significant abrogation of freedom of speech, but perhaps a necessary one. It is now apparently illegal in the UK to express the view that the London bombers, or Palestinian terrorists for that matter, are motivated by legitimate grievances. It will be interesting to see how these laws are interpreted by the courts. Even more interesting, is that the list applies only to foreign nationals, who can be deported for committing them.

So, it’s ok to continue to foment terrorist violence or urge understanding for oppressed Palestinians who blow up busses if you happen to be, say, Gorgeous George Galloway, but you can now be deported if you’re Omar Bakri Mohammed. I actually think the distinction is permissible. For an explanation of why, click here.

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Near Broadway and Lafayette in Manhattan … ROCK ON!

Photo by John Long

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Here’s a story about the Korean War: a group of British soldiers were under attack from a Chinese force. The British were outnumbered, surrounded, trying to hold an indefensible position. Whatever the details, the situation was dire. The British commanding officer radioed for reinforcements, explaining that he and his chaps were in a bit of a tight spot. The request for help was received by some Americans, who were close enough and in great enough numbers to come to the rescue. Despite this, they arrived too late and discovered most of their allies slaughtered.

This story is usually carted out to illustrate the language divide that separates the two nations, but I think it’s about more than just pants and trousers. Whoever received that message didn’t misunderstand its content, they misunderstood its tone; they missed the urgency. After all, when an American officer is under attack and is terrified that his men are about to be blown up and shot to pieces he shouts down the radio about asses getting whooped and things being FUBAR (I know Paul doesn’t like swearing in his blog so to explain: the last three words of that acronym are ‘beyond all recognition’ . Also, it may be a phrase from Vietnam but the point is still sound). A tight spot, for an American officer, is two burst tires on his jeep, not imminent destruction.

The point I’m lumbering towards here is that the British aren’t more brave or more calm than their American counterparts, they’re just more ironic. Emotions might be embarrassing to a British person but we’ve still got to express them, so we step to one side and point them out as we would an interestingly shaped hedge. This was demonstrated in every vox pop after the London bombings: we heard a calm description of a flash of light, a loud bang, screaming and it all being rather frightening. The odd thing is that these people weren’t pretending to not be scared. If you’d asked ‘But weren’t you terrified out of your wits?’ they would have answered ‘Yes, of course, it was absolutely dreadful’. You might have thought they were having you on but that would be to misunderstand the subdued tone of their response.

I was in London two weeks ago and everyone told me they were afraid to get on the tube, and that the atmosphere was strange and unsettling but frankly I didn’t feel it, commuting in the miniscule trains along with everyone else. There was less of a police presence than here in New York and I didn’t notice anyone with a rucksack attracting attention. I’m sure people who’d been in town for both sets of bombings still felt their disquiet but they had already begun to step to one side of it, a death-shaped puddle on the way to work.

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No. Not him! Me. I’m the best man. That’s the groom.

I’m still on holiday—currently in St Saud, France, where I shall be the best man at my good friend Aidan Kemsley’s (pictured) wedding, this Saturday.

About one week ago I warned the groom that unless he had at least a draft of his speech ready by the time I arrived, I would be forced to post an incriminating photograph from the stag do (batchelor party). He failed. I have been forced to carry out my threat.

Aidan, I shall not warn you again. Next time, it will be a video file!

(P.S. thanks to the EiNY contributors who are doing sterling work. Keep it up!)

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Between mind-numbing shows about interior design and car makeovers on The Learning Channel, I happened to catch an inspiring documentary, The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off, the touching story of Jonny Kennedy, a English fellow who was born with a rare genetic disorder called dystrophic epidermolysis bullosa, which caused his skin to fall off for the duration of his life. Despite a lifetime of suffering, Jonny maintained a positive attitude and sense of humor through it all. I recommend watching it if you can. The show even has subtitles for those who cannot understand Jonny’s English accent. And you get to witness a really awkward funeral service with Jonny’s favorite Queen song blaring in the background.

Jonny is not to be confused with Rubber Johnny, even though they sort of look and sound the same.

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This is the first genuine (almost) smile we’ve managed to capture. They are fleeting to say the least. It’s not a great photo I’ll grant you, but I was so desperate to get a picture of Billy (my son) on Paul’s site I couldn’t resist.

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I’d always imagined Republicans didn’t care about the environment; after all, by the time the rest of us are choking to death from the putrefied air, blistering under 100% UV rays and desiccated from lack of water, the Republicans will have constructed huge domed enclaves, protecting themselves from the perishing masses. They’ll be happily cooped up in front of Bible TV whilst us schmucks quietly curl up and die outside.

This is the stuff of bad sci-fi I know, but the stance of many Republicans toward the environment has had me worried it might come true. Not only that, but that they have already accepted it as a given. They do believe in Armageddon after all. This article from today’s Guardian has given me some hope.

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Have you ever cried helplessly for 15 minutes because something was so beautiful? If this doesn’t appeal, do not watch the final episode of Six Feet Under. It took Heidi and I that long to stand up after the credits rolled. We couldn’t speak or even look at one another—no TV show has ever had such an effect on me. I’d hate to be a TV writer after tonight; as I write this I envision an exodus involving LA and a thousand ambitious young writers. Finally it has all been done. There is nothing left to say. I know, I know; this has been said of art for as long as people have been making it, but just for tonight it actually feels true.

I won’t say anything about what happened in the show. As with most episodes of Six Feet Under, what happened wasn’t even the point; what mesmerized us was how it happened and how gorgeous it looked. Do you realize that tonight was historic? The greatest TV show ever made is over, forever. I feel like there should be fireworks outside. Instead there is nothing, and very few of the people I know will have even watched it. I know how I’ll feel tomorrow. I’ll feel like I did in 1997 when I bought ‘OK Computer’ by Radiohead. I thought it was an earth-shattering work of art and I was buzzing with joy. I wanted the whole world to join in celebration: the greatest album of our time had just been released, please somebody acknowledge it! Unfortunately, all anyone seemed to care about was the death of some two-bit celeb named Princess Diana.

Being honest with myself, I wasn’t always so enraptured by Six Feet Under. Through the seasons there were plotlines that annoyed the hell out of me, there were characters I couldn’t stand and scenes I was tempted to fast-forward through. Claire’s had me cringing so much I’ve nearly peed my pants. Nate and Brenda’s perpetual and pointlessly circular introspection was enough to make me want to give up. That goes for Billy and Olivier too. Rico & Vanessa, the token plebs, had their moments, but I was usually happy to see the end of their scenes. Oh, and let’s not forget Lisa. What a pathetic drip! I was as glad as Nate to see the back of her. God rest her soul. David, Keith, Ruth, Bettina, Sarah, Margaret, Maggie and George I loved.

Up until tonight my only other criticism was that the characterization sometimes appeared slapdash; personalities seemed to lurch between extremes too fast for me to process. By the end of season 2 we thought they’d done all there was to do and that they should have ended it. In retrospect, I think I can put this down to our watching all five seasons in one year. Had we watched it week-by-week over five years I think we could’ve kept up with the plot twists. And as irritating as many of the characters were, I felt for them when they were in trouble and forgave them when they went crazy. All they had to do to win me back was play pleasant for a week or two.

Now that Brenda’s a single mom, Nate’s dead, Lisa’s dead, Claire’s grown up, Rico & Vanessa are independent, Billy’s sane, and Olivier is human I love them all. RIP the lot of you; I’ll think of you often.

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Hungry dog spotted on 5th Ave in Park Slope, Brooklyn, waiting for his master.

Photo by John Long

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