Since there have been several posts and some discussion on this topic, perhaps our dear readers would be interested in the following event.

Lantern Free Film Screening
Tuesday, February 21, 6:30pm – 9:00pm
New Lantern Events Location:
Whirlwind Creative Gallery
330 W 38th Street
Between 8th and 9th Ave.
Suite 511
New York, NY

Lantern teams up with Whirlwind Creative gallery and Holla Back NYC to bring you a free screening and discussion of War Zone.

War Zone is about sex, power and what happens when men—either knowingly or unknowingly—threaten a woman’s right to walk undisturbed on the streets. What exactly do catcalls, leers or a whole litany of other behaviors mean to a woman? And why do men engage in these behaviors?

Shot all over the US, Maggie Hadleigh-West turns her camera on men in the same way that they turn their aggression on her. War Zone is 76 minutes of explosive footage as the filmmaker places herself in very real danger by daring to ask the men on the streets why they are treating a complete stranger in a sexual way. In the process, she has been hit, yelled at, apologized to and engaged in mesmerizing conversations with the men that have harassed her. Through these conversations, Hadleigh-West reveals the anger, fear and frustration as well as the affection, admiration and humor that characterizes relationships between men and women.

Discussion panel guests include members of Holla Back NYC, a local grassroots organization that empowers New Yorkers to confront and snap pics of street harassers.

Light refreshments will be served.
Film begins at 7pm.

Please RSVP if you plan to attend; email Olivia (olivia AT lanternbooks.com) or leave a voice message at (212) 414-2275 ext. 16.

Should be rather interesting. I, of course, am going in order to heckle my friends at Holla Back NYC.

The day after our mishap with the nice pervert on St. Mark’s Place, my friend Mari told me that a few blocks after we said good-bye at the corner of Broadway and Astor Place, a car pulled up next to her at the intersection of 10th and Broadway. Some guy leaned out the window and started yelling something at her. It was even more obscene than what St. Mark’s perv had yelled. This string of slurs involved the threat of actual penetration. It was horrible. She flipped him off, and he stopped and disappeared back into the car. Mari postulated that it was because he’d either gotten tired of yelling at her or his friends had pulled him back in.

I certainly hope it was the latter. It’d show that even though there are lots of stupid, nasty, crude men who think nothing of harrassing random women*, that at least they are surrounded by a buffer of friends and family who know just what assholes they are.

I know these things happen in New York City, and every other large city, but I still don’t get it. Why do people do this? Why do they need to get their thrills by sexually harrassing strangers? What kind of joy could they possibly derive from it? I’m being serious here. Does anybody know of any psychological studies or anything? I remember a woman shot a documentary once, where she filmed herself stopping guys who’d heckled her and asked them why they did it. Has anybody else heard of that film?

*Though it’s not just women who get harrassed. Some old man once grabbed my boyfriend’ crotch in Morningside Heights. If there was ever a moment that called for a “what the fuck!?,” that was it.

Nothing beats a sunny or a partly sunny NYC day. Today is one of those days. Though we’re in January and snow should be falling hard – it’s not even remotely cold outside. After going around scouting for locations for an upcoming short film project, I was welcomed by 2 parcels! One was the Rififi DVD and the other was the Miles Davis soundtrack for the movie Elevator to the Gallows. It’s been a week filled with French things because I had vegan crepes the other day and they were absolutely phenomenal.

I don’t think anything beats listening to Miles Davis while doing some writing and enjoying the flush of sunlight coming into your room as clove incense burns in the background. A perfect Saturday.

So, I’ve been looking for rooms on craigslist for the past week and EVERY DAY I see the same post. Apparently, these guys are having a hard time finding someone suitable to move into their Carroll Gardens apartment. You wanna know why?

$700 – christian nonsmoking roommates/sharing a house
Reply to: nyc4christ@verizon.net
Date: 2006-01-27, 9:35PM EST

brooklyn heights vic.carroll gardens
looking for a nonsmoking roommate
share house with 3 nonsmoking male bornagain christians under 30
share 3 bathrooms/big kitchen/XLL open area/3 floor house w backyard
15 by 15 bedroom with 2 sunny windows and lots of closet space
$700. per month with utilities
long or short term/unfurnised or furnished
move in asap or by feb one
646-671-3177
F or G train to carroll st

Anybody up for some Jesus with their morning coffee?

So I went rock climbing again last night, this time at City Climbers Club, where a friend is a member. (If you’re not a member, like me, you can purchase a $15 day pass, which includes rental of shoes and equipment.) And this time, I learned how to belay. Which, I have to say, was putting a hell of a lot of (perhaps undeserved) trust in me on the part of my friend. But trust me she did, and I’m happy to say that she never once went plummeting to her death. Or even injury. Go me.

This really is the way to get the full rock-climbing experience. Not only are the walls numerous (three of the four walls of the room are climbable), but the routes are varied and fun. And when you go with a partner and take turns climbing and belaying (is that a word—sorry I really am a novice), you are both engaged and invested in each other’s safety and overall climbing experience. Teamwork at its finest.

Of course, one other nice thing about it (as opposed to going to other places, where a staff member or instructor belays for you) is that when your partner is climbing, you are not. Hence, you get lots of little breaks. And hence, I am sitting at my desk today and not having trouble typing, since my forearms and fingertips are not sore from over-use. Awesome.

[image by Roger (randomboulder) from the climbnyc online forum]

To the man in this photo:

My friend Mari and I had been discussing how placid our lives have become since school ended, now that we have traded the emotional highs and lows of college life for steady paychecks, steady relationships and predictable routines.

Fortunately, however, you appeared with pleasingly ironic timing to shake us out of our complacency. We were just placidly browsing along St. Mark’s Place when you suddenly told Mari and me about that very naughty thing you wanted to do with us. And not just you, but the guy who was working with you, too! Thanks!

We hurried into the store next door, and I thought about you for a few minutes (oh yes, I did). I finally decided to preserve the experience for my Internet scrapbook (i.e. my blog) by taking a photo of you with my handy camera-phone. I don’t understand why you looked so surprised. How could I let this precious moment slip by without taking a photo?

I also don’t understand why you didn’t answer me when I asked you why you said those things to us. After all, you did initiate the conversation, and I genuinely wanted to know. And I don’t understand why you got so angry when I mused out loud that it might be because you’re an ugly pervert who gratifies himself by harassing random women. After all, I thought you might also want to know how it feels to be treated like a piece of meat.

I think you should be honored to know that you’re the first man I’ve ever snapped back at (excuse the pun). Over the three years I’ve lived in New York City, I’ve had many strange men do and say extraordinarily nasty things to me. In fact, some of the things they’ve said or done have been even nastier, and even more degrading. But you, dear sir, are the first.

I’ve been told that I should just get used to it; that, being a woman and all, I need to take it for granted that I will be harassed on the street. But while I have become a bit complacent, I like to think that I haven’t yet mutated into a doormat.

Hugs and kisses (not really),
Catherine

P.S. By the way, if you’re going to sexually harass someone, try not to do it while you’re at work. I think that sock store deserves more attentive employees. Plus, with all those frilly anklets in stock, your boss might not be happy if you start scaring away the lady customers.

I’m sorry Slick. I’m really sorry. You cut my hair from when I was 17 until about 22. These 5 years I cheated on you only once, yes, I moved to Chris’ chair one day when you weren’t there and well, I really liked the way he cut it. He was smoother than you were, he didn’t jab the buzzer into my lower neck portion like you sometimes have the tendency to do. Oh Slick, you were a cool dude, you know what I mean? But he just had this way about the way he cut my hair that made me feel better. After that day, I knew you weren’t the barber for me. But Chris was a principled man, he didn’t want to support my cheating ways. The way he looked at me after that one time I slipped up was unbearable. So, I came back to you and you were none the wiser as to my indiscretions.

I always enjoyed listening to you. You always made racist remarks about the Jews and about the blacks and even the Indian people, even though I’m Indian myself – it never made much sense – but you made me comfortable and tried your best to earn that $2 tip.

I just nodded my head in agreement because you were cutting my hair and frankly, the way you handled that razor always scared me a little. Do you have any mob ties? I hope you don’t – I was always afraid of what might happen if that razor slipped. So, I never corrected your politically incorrect ways. But you come from a time when men were men.

Towards the end, I got sloppy – I started coming in on days I knew you weren’t going to be around so I could get my haircut from the young and hip Russian whose small talk almost made me pass out with disgust. He kept on asking me about how many bitches I had boned the past weekend . . . because to him this was the height of cool.
(more…)

Yesterday evening I got a “special alert” from the Straphangers Campaign about that shiny, elusive train with which I have such a profound love/hate relationship: The L Train. Oh crap. The alerts usually come much later in the week, so I know something must be up. Keep in mind that the past two weekends the L has only run in sections, the main one being between Lorimer Street and 8th Ave, requiring all the poor suckers that live more than 2 stops in to take shuttle buses and generally causing all sorts of slow-downs and massive levels of annoyingness. Well, the third time is the charm for them this weekend when, yet again, there will be no train service between here and Manhattan. Here’s the MTA’s diversion and alternative route sign (which reads like a Dicken’s novel–are they paid by the word or what) but I like mine much better.

Remember you can make your own faux subway signs here.

Anyone else stuck in the burg this weekend? Or the farther L train recesses?

It is bloody agonizing to exist in this city without a phone.

So, I dropped my cell phone in a friend’s car last night — the car of a friend of a friend, actually. And, this is the absolute WORST time to lose my cell phone. My funds are dwindling, and I’m deep into the hunt for a new job. I have an interview tomorrow, as a matter of fact. And, wouldn’t you know, when I used a pay phone to check my messages, I noticed a message about another interview. But, I need to contact these people! I need to confirm my interview AND schedule my other one.

I have been using a pay phone all day (I don’t have a home phone). I’ll have to use one tomorrow, or find an available friend to use for an hour, in order to contact the interviewers. You know why? Because if you’re a Sprint customer, you have to call an insurance company and have a phone mailed to you. Isn’t that insane? What kind of system is that? And the asshat at the Sprint Store (and, I’ll be specific: It was at 86th and 3rd Ave.) didn’t seem remotely interested in trying to help me. He didn’t make eye contact or bother to ask if I wanted to turn off my other phone to keep it from being used. But, I bet he’ll be able to pay his rent next week. Fucker.

But, no worries. My phone won’t be used. The battery died — as it is an old ass phone, it tends to do that rather quickly. But, this sucks because I can’t just keep calling my phone, or have someone else do it, and hope someone picks up.

The one person I know who knows of this friend and friend of a friend was asked to contact them for me. I pleaded with her, gave her a script, tried to explain to her how important this was. But, in the end, she felt too nervous and awkward to help me out. Yeah.

I think a force of nature is trying to tell me I’m doomed.

I love Coney Island. I took myself out there recently, and reveled in the the winter sea and the sand; the smell of the salt in the frigid air, the sight of a boardwalk with its boarded up summer businesses and the other wintertime revelers out and about, like me, bundled up in coats, hats, and scarves. And sunglasses. How great is that. Wearing sunglasses in the winter, because the sun cutting through the crystal clear sky is brutal and unforgiving, and magnified when it reflects off of the water. The air is cold but the sun is warm, and the water is rough and reminds me of other times when the air is warm and the ocean is full of people in bathing suits.

What a day. What a place. I’ll always be in love with it, and I always forget that when a significant period of time goes by between visits. When I was a child, Coney Island was such a mystery. I would see it in the distance, the parachute ride, the ferris wheel, and the top of the Cyclone (I’ve always had a thing for roller coasters) peeking out between the buildings on the Belt Parkway as I drove with my family to visit relatives in Brooklyn and Long Island. I asked about it every time, and couldn’t get enough of the stories of that crazy place, supposed to have fallen into disrepair and abandoned after its brief heyday. They would tell me stories of people getting stuck on the menacing looking parachute ride, people getting killed on the Cyclone. Maybe true, maybe urban legends, but in my mind they only heightened the appeal of that faraway wonderland.

The first time I made it out there, ten years ago probably, really was magical for me. Not just because it was the fulfillment of a destiny established in childhood, but also because of its stunning mixture of life and decay. Coney Island still is that for sure, but every time you go now there’s more life and less decay. Not that that’s a bad thing, but I’ll never forget that first time, those first impressions. And I can’t be there without thinking about that, and reflecting on those family members that came before me, reveling there under such different circumstances, and the legacy they’ve left behind.

Such is the power of the sun and the sand on a sunny winter’s day.