This Rogue’s Town . . .

Caught "Thank You for Smoking" with Mexijew Halfbreed last night.  Got to thinking about that girl I used to force myself to hang out with all the time.  The one who complained alot.  Friend of a friend of a friend from college.  Moved to L.A. after two years.  Couldn’t deal.  Accountant.  One of those manic types.  Complained.  ALOT. I mean, not in that whiney, JAPpy kinda way that suits Tri-Staters of all confessional persuasions, but in more of a WASPy, disaffected, Montgomery County, stiff-upper-life kind of way.  You get? I mean, true she was Catholic.  She always made a point of mentioning, as though this in itself marked such a sever counterpoint to the chords of mainstream society.  I mean, perhaps it does perhaps it doesn’t.  She gets her lord and savior’s alleged birthday off with nary an eyebrow raised.  I had to ask for permission growing up.  Not that it mattered really, except for a day off from school, lots of free cash, and a near bottomless procession of donuts and prime rib buffets. 

In any event, it got me to thinking about her.  Not her per se.  I mean, what was it to her except a litany of grievances and the same lecture on my part about having to do something about the rut she was in.  Sooner or later, I would stop taking my own advice.  But for now, for then, in assorted bars and coffeeshops, increasingly the latter and not the former because she to wit needed to be someplace where she would feel comfortable.  Perhaps amongst her own.  I don’t know where all the whining disaffecteds congregate out here, save the gym, and then rarely do we ever speak to one another. 

A string of malaproprisms she was.  I mean, perhaps I’m not being fair.  I suppose it’s not all that difficult to malaprope . . . eh, yes . . . oneself in my presence.  But, of course, she extolled how well I seemed to be "living the city" a mere four months after moving out here.  At that point in time, I recall only hour upon endless hour of closing documents, living my life at the mercy of Fordham Law Review alumni.  Not exactly living the city, not exactly living anything, not really living in any commonly held understanding of the term.  Much like those genetically modified chickens KFC is alleged to breed, the kind with no beeks, feathers or claws.  They’re not living in the sense that a chicken ordinarily would, pecking, cawing, laying eggs.  But they exist for sentient purposes, do they not? Well, that was me to some extent; living insofar as it provided some contrast and comfort to the emotionally constipated. 

Apparently she had IBS too so the analogy is not completely off the mark.  How would I know this? A litany of grievances, of course.  Malaproprisms to go around.  And a strange lack of subtlety when winging it was required.  Which brings us to last night, and a movie about smoking.  Less about smoking, I guess, and more about the tobacco industry.  Less about the tobacco industry and more about one man’s voyage for self-discovery.  Less about self-discovery, and the voyages thereto, and more about the . . . BIG PICTURE . . .

Yes, yes, that . . .

Yes, she placed a random voicemail one day.  Her voice was clenched, wary, monotone, and slightly reminiscent of her childhood sojourn in London.  She trudged through the usual small-talk.  The how’ve you beens, the how are things, the just calling to sees for a good two minutes worth.  The liturgy of too many single females in this city.  And then the coda:  How was it for you, Hani?

Of course, the "it" in question remains forever a mystery, having no reference point within her own thoughts.  At least those thoughts that crossed her lips into the awkward bonds of everyday conversation.  How was it for me? I don’t know.  Please tell me what it is, and i will gladly assess whether or not it is something I care to recount for discursive purposes.  Sometimes, rarely, almost never, I think about that it she could have meant and the very likely scenario that she meant nothing at all because it is terribly important for to know that she didn’t.  Why you ask? I don’t know, I am a self-regulating being like everyone else out there and I need to know that standards are maintained, that bounds are understood, and that . . . ick, ick, ick . . . could she really have? did she want to? could I blame her if she did?

Of course not.  No apologies. 

And, sure enough, it forever ruined the phrase "How was it for you" for those contexts where it would certainly come in handy.  Not that anyone ever says that in real life.  Not that anyone actually lights up after sex.  "What does man usually do after an extremely passionate experience?", asked my High School AP Lit teacher, and of course I happily replied that they smoke.  We laughed.  Of course, who was I kidding? Perhaps, many more than just myself.   But did she have to go there.  And nearly four years hence, did I? Time don’t always tell. 

I suppose "No sleep ’til Brooklyn" would’ve been more apt a title, being that I wound up catching the F train (its tracks still slightly redolent of the prior day’s vomit) at 6:00am to make it to the 8:00am start of that borough’s half-marathon.  But after arriving at Coney Island, its beaches bare, its boardwalk shuttered, with nothing to brace the weary strider from the Atlantic’s relentless harsh gale, the scene was less evocative of "Licensed to Ill" than it was of the ending to "The Warriors"". 

Turnbull AC’s, Gramercy Riffs, Furies, Rogues, Orphans, Lizzies, the DJ, and of course, The Warriors themselves, are here substituted with Harriers, GNY’s, Central Parks, Reservoir Dogs, Compadres, Frontrunners, Mary Wittenberg and, of course, unaffiliated folks like myself.  I suppose I could fairly be considered an Orphan for these purposes, but anyone who’s seen the movie knows how much they royally suck. 

Not that I performed significantly above the level of royal suckage yesterday.  The intractable planks of Coney Island’s Boardwalk gave way to the bare sabbathday silence of Ocean Parkway and then to Prospect Park and its sharp, deceptive elevations en route to probably my worst good faith half-marathon time ever.  As with nearly everything that’s happened to me since November, I feel a very Catholic sense of entitlement even for this.  Bar exam re-take took me out of commission for all of winter and, by out of commission I don’t simply mean "no running", I mean no physicial activity of any sort.  On the one hand both of my bar course instructors insisted I make time for physical activity, one of them irritatingly so . . .

"Mr. Khalil, you need to go work out . . . "

"um, well . . . "

"This is a mental AND physical excercise and clearly your mind is wearing out your body."

Hmm.  Do you think that might have to do with your 13-hour a day study system?!  And on the other hand, I recall the following exchange with a triathlete-turned-TA:

"So, you ran a triathlon? "

"Yep."

"I have it in my head to start training for next Marathon in May while I’m . . ."

"I’m sorry, but you don’t have time for that.  You don’t even have time for the gym.  Unless you’re listening to CD lectures on the treadmill or step machine"

I’m sorry, the what and the what? But that, of course, is all behind me now.  We’re still in the same season, albeit a different hue, and the color of this moment is the miles and miles of asphalt grey standing between me and the (slightly improbable) second Marathon awaiting me Memorial Day weekend. 

But man, there is nothing quite like an 8:45 pace time to . . . well, first and foremost, to get you to put down the fucking Magnolia cupcakes and get back on track.  As for the apparent ankle sprain I’ve acquired this weekend, only time, ice, and elevation will do away with that.  Of course time, for these purposes, is finite, and I’ve had just about enough ice and elevation for one week.  I suppose that’s where the ibuprofen comes in. 

And the muse that carried me across five boroughs back in November seems a great deal less siren-like this time and more like . . . Luther from the Rogues:

"(clink-clink-clink) . . . Warriooors . . . come out to play-ayyyy . . . "

Well, at least he got it in the end too, but not without keeping Swan, Cochise and Co. on their toes.  A different kind of motivation from what I’ve relied on in the past, but I guess it’ll have to do for now. 

After waging a long, valiant, four month post-Marathon fight, my left big toe nail finally succumbed today to the very same affliction that long ago felled its dextral counterpart.  Time of death was around 8:27pm in the Bally’s Worldwide Plaza steamroom. Though recently Left Biggie’s vitals had remained stable and ever purple, the past 48 hours saw a sudden uptick in running, brought about by my firm belief that I have degenerated into a corpulent fat fuck these past few months, which may have contributed to Left Biggie’s quick, painless slide towards complete disintegration.   

Left Biggie died alone and leaves no survivors.  Funeral services were held earlier today at the waste basket by the pool.  Contributions should be made out to me because I’m poor and you love me. 

***You Are Emerald Green***

Deep and mysterious, it often seems like no one truly gets you.
Inside, you are very emotional and moody - though you don’t let it show.People usually have a strong reaction to you… profound love or deep hate. But you can even get those who hate you to come around. There’s something naturally harmonious about you.

What Color Green Are You?
http://www.blogthings.com/whatcolorgreenareyouquiz/

***You Are Olde English***

Drinking is more than a hobby for you. It’s your favorite drug.
When you drink, you want to get wasted. As quickly and cheaply as possible.Looking back on your best times drinking… well, you don’t remember them at all. You may be a few brain cells short, but you still can chug a 40!

What’s Your Beer Personality?
http://www.blogthings.com/whatsyourbeerpersonalityquiz/

***You’re 40% Irish***

You’re probably less Irish than you think you are…
But you’re still more Irish than most.

How Irish Are You?
http://www.blogthings.com/howirishareyouquiz/

***You Are Dublin Mudslide Ice Cream***

You won’t remember any of this in the morning

What Flavor Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Are You?
http://www.blogthings.com/whatflavorbenandjerrysicecreamareyouquiz/

If ever given the opportunity to serve process on someone, do yourself a favor and walk the other way.  EVEN if you happen to be the one who drafted the motion.  OR if your boss is a certified nutjob with a terribly autistic command of the CPLR.  AND THEN ESPECIALLY if either of the defendants are 1) a law firm or 2) in Chinatown. 

Why? Because, quite simply, there really is no nice way to say, "We think you’ve committed a fraud."

It also loses a little bit in the translation . . .

And let’s talk about just how easy it is to fake an address in Chinatown.  Let’s see, here’s 38 Bowery and maybe 30 Bowery should be before the end of the block, right? Uh . . . no . . . we’re still at 38 Bowery, even though we’ve now moved four storefronts down the block.  Oh wait! Here’s . . . 38 1/2 Bowery, and here’s ANOTHER 38 1/2 Bowery, and oh yes, they just can’t get enough 38 1/2 Bowery down here, can they? Maybe this is it? A noodle shop? Well, wouldn’t it be fun to serve process here, amidst the lingering arome of MSG and the eviscerated roast duck hanging ruddy in the windows.  Oh wait, no . . . this is ALSO 38 1/2 Bowery.  Well maybe it’s through this doorway and up these stairs just behind . . . Ong’s Family Association? Yikes, suddenly I feel very Jack Burton-esque .

It is, I guess, all in the reflexes . . .

Maybe at the barbershop next door, perhaps if I uncharacteristically speak slowly and annunciate:

"Excuse me, what’s the (uh-dress) for this building"

"Exkyoos mee?"

Let’s try this again, Hani.  Remember, you’re from Libertyville not Little Silver . . .

"The (ADD-dress), the street (ADD-dress)"

"?"

"The street! What street! What NUMBER are we at ON THIS STREET?!"

"OH! STREET (ADD-dress)"

Yep!

"38 Bowery"

At the Bank of America at the corner with Bayard, I am on the receiving end of the only English conversation in the room. 

"What’s the (uh-dress)?"

"120 Bayard. Next!"

Sigh . .. well, the delivery Uptown wasn’t a whole lot more deft . . .

"Yes, I’m here to serve process on the firm"

"For which case?"

"Oh no, it’s a new case.  It’s the firm that’s being sued"

"For what?"

"To quiet title.  They(1) believe title was clouded by a fraudulent conveyance the firm may have ratified". 

Well, that brought the mood down just a scoatch . . .

"Can I sign?"

"No, it’s service on the partnership"

Still falling . . .

"Well, while you do seem like a person of suitable, age and discretion, we have to . . . "

Hani, stop using Rule 310 to be charming! It ain’t working . . .

"Um . . .well you know it’s very difficult to just get a partner to sign"

"I can wait"

Well, suffice it to say, I’m not exactly in my element as a passive agressive bad ass, especially with the Eastern European receptionist shooting laser beams at me from behind the desk.  So we decided to leave things be till the next day, aware that there are mere 118 more to go to before the case gets dismissed. 

Fundamental notions of fair play and substantial justice.  You gotta love it . . . ’cause I sure as hell don’t.  Rough on the soles, to say the least . . .

(1) my convenient new sobriquet for myself

So did you hear the one about the Egyptian and the Mexijew Halfbreed who went in to see Dave Chappelle’s Block Party on East 86th Street? You haven’t? Oh, it’s SO funny! Here’s how it goes . . .

So an Egyptian and a Mexijew Halfbreed go in to see Dave Chappelle’s Block Party on East 86th Street.  The punch line? There is none because said Egyptian and Mexijew Halfbreed wound up leaving after forty-five minutes following a particularly nasty, racially-tinged altercation with the two ladies sitting behind us.  Long story short: they were being loud.  We asked them politely if they would please quiet down and they started behaving like 12-year olds (they had to both be over 30).  True to Mr. Chapelle’s creative genius, this was one variation of "When Keepin’ It Real Goes Wrong".  We brought in the management.  Others in the theatre were pleading to kick the two out.  The two started to get particularly nasty with us.  We demanded a refund.  To my knowledge, they wound up staying. 

We got two free passes a piece to the Angelika for our troubles.  But it still fucking pisses me off.  Of course, nobody wants to be disrespected and a close friend of mine later that night essentially told me to get over it.  But I have a feeling that not being a person of color she may have missed one critical point.  These two were essentially trying to find a white person to pick a fight with, and in the darkened movie house, decided that I would play that role.  It was, I guess less resonant for myself than it was for my moviegoing companion.  In spite of her Mexijew Halfbreed status, she grew up in a barrio on the Northwest side of Chicago raised by her mother, a Mexican immigrant without even a high school education.  Respect is something she has had to earn, and that earning power includes (i’m sorry to say this to many of you) the right to go to a movie on the Upper East Side and, in the ordinary course of decorum, not be accused of being a racist. 

That’s something I don’t believe most of my white friends necessarily understand; and I use that distinction aware of the fact that hardly any of my friends are non-white.  It doesn’t bother me.  What I’m trying to speak to instead is the embrace of easy answers by all of us across the color spectrum.  For example: the supposition that if a non-black asks a black to please be quiet during an all-black movie, it must clearly be because they are not black and not because they didn’t pay $10.75 to hear what you have to say about every last line of dialogue uttered in an unscripted movie USING YOUR OUTDOOR VOICE.  Likewise, if a non-black ignores a black panhandler on the subway, they must only be doing so because they themselves are non-black.  Other suppositions cut the other way: "Oh, well black people always talk back at films. Don’t you understand that?"  or "It was a Dave Chappelle movie, not ‘Les Parapluies de Cherbourg’. What were you expecting?" The list could go on and on.  Those kinds explanations rarely take you anywhere useful and tend to be infantilizing.  It would be effectively saying that black people have earned the right to be obnoxious.  Really? And have I, as an Arab, earned the right to be indiscriminately homicidal?

For all the harping out there in society about the very real social and political tyrannies that continue to exist over persons of color, you will find few interractions more vicious and discouraging than those of persons of color amongst one another.  They tend to be those interractions for which there is no post-structural remove, whereby you can comfortably say "well you need to put it all in context".  That approach tends to excuse those instances of folks just being plain nasty, which is really all this was.  I’m sorry to say, but context my scrawny brown ass! 

And perhaps for those reasons I should really just get over it.  But then if I did, you wouldn’t have it out there to think about, even if just for a bit.  Overthought, tiresome complication, unnecessary dwelling on evanescent issues, call it what you will.  I’ll take either of those over an easy answer any day. 

. . . is unfortunately now obscured by the watered-down, light amber hue of one of the worst-tasting bottle beers imaginable.  Thank you, Miller Genuine Draft, for completely ruining my relationship with "I’d Rather Go Blind" by Etta James.  You are dead to me, right up there with JCPenney.

And Etta, you’re still alive and have been off the smack for a while now so, presumably, YOU signed off on this too. WTF?!

I’ve observed two critical milestones in the past few days ("critical", by which I mean, of interest only to myself and the five odd souls who likely read this blog on a regular basis). On the one hand, we’ve passed one year here at Rogue’s Town; one year that I certainly didn’t expect to come to a pass.  This blog is only temporary, I may have insisted, alleged, intimated, at least until I come up with a new one. 

A new one which, up to this point, has only a title: Frustration of Purpose.  An unwritten blog, it’s namesake owed to a defunct obscure doctrine of English contract law.  Ya, I guess I can see why I’ve been a little slow on the uptake. 

Sigh . . . it was gonna be cool.  Things would jump out at you.  There would be different features.  Really, a one-man New Yorker. Of course, I don’t read the real New Yorker much.  But it would be like that.  Without the Talk of the Town section because, as we all know, I rarely venture outside these days for purposes that don’t involve getting laid. 

At least so it seems.  Sometimes.  Maybe not.  How would you know?

Exactly. 

Alas, this blog has adopted an air of permanence nothing that isn’t available to the viewing public ought to have.  Perhaps I like it better this way.  I ended the old blog partly because I boxed myself in, and partly because I thought it was the only way to get away from my own narrative of law school.  In that sense, Rogue’s Town has been the perfect third year bl . . .

Oh what’s that? The link doesn’t work? Yes, well I guess that brings me to the other milestone. 

effinchamp is gone.  I mean, yes I stopped blogging there just under a year ago, but it is now lost to the world of . . . ya, just the world.  Its contents, background, flasheffects, photography, agonies stored away on a zip drive in Southern California. 

I’ve been dithering about whether to even bother moving it to a new server.  The consensus (among five) has been that my reasons for ending effinchamp seemed a little self-involved and unnecessary, given that I obviously have no problem with blogging in general.  After all, I’ve been regailing you fine folks this last year with tails of bar reviews, reading lists, and marathon splits. 

But on occasional revists to the old blog, I noticed something about it that I hadn’t necessarily taken into account last year: it had a story arc, and it had more or less been complete.  At first there was anticipation, then experience, agony sooned followed, then adaptation, then more agony, then withdrawal, then acceptance. 

Of course, acceptance isn’t dispositive.  There is always transcendance.  I know it’s there for the taking.  But I think the tiniest little part of me knew that transendance was going to be a little far off, with alot more perserverance in order.  Perserverance is boring, I know it.  There’s a billboard in Brick City extolling it as a virture, right where the Midtown Direct crosses the Passaic.  And indeed it is, but it makes neither for good reading nor writing.  Now imagine feeling like you have nothing else to blog about?   

Exactly

That, and I ran out of things to take pictures of too. 

And so we here we are now, a year older and wizened.  Of course, I know there’s nothing more self-indulgent than blogging about blogging on another blog which you cannot now read.  Then again, consider the context: a blog on a profile on an online social network which you may have visited either by habit & loyalty or by chance & curiosity or by the very strange and sketchy confluence of the two. 

If you’re in the former category, I suppose all of this is old hat coming from me. 

And if you’re part of the latter, consider sleeping with me anyways . . . you’ve made it this far and surely need something to show for your efforts. 

To self-indulgence in the digital age! I’ve done good by it . . .

and Happy Anniversary, all, however trifling it may seem.