An Observation About Rockville Centre
Rockville Centre is, I believe, one of the “Five Towns” on Long Island. I’m not exactly sure what the other four towns are, except that one is Valley Stream, and that they all focus around shopping malls, the Long Island Rail Road and a shitty college.
Actually, I’m pretty sure at this point that Rockville Centre is not a town at all, but an incorporated village. Nassau county has lots of incorporated villages. I’m not really sure what their function is, but they all seem to have police departments whose main function is to write traffic and parking tickets.
The actual governmental structure of Nassau seems to consist of a county legislature and executive, who can establish prevailing wage laws like the NY City Council and…well, I’m sure they can do other things, too. Within the county, are three major townships (Hempstead, North Hempstead and Oyster Bay), which manage some public housing for seniors, maybe collect taxes and might even collect garbage. I’m vague on these details. Within Nassau are two independent cities, Glen Cove and Long Beach, which act like any other city that lies within the borders of a county (rather than encompassing five entire counties). While I’m still unclear on how these borders and responsibilities overlap, I’m impressed that I’ve learned this much in the space of two weeks, after living two and a half decades in such close proximity to the edge of the world. I figured this information would be a lesson, of sorts, to my readers, which is why I share it.
My observation about Rockville Centre is that residents actually press the “pedestrian waiting” button at street light intersections! Consistently. Reliably. Their naive faith in governmental authority is enviable.
I’m sure you’re familiar with these buttons. Accompanied by a sign that says something along the lines of “Press button and wait for green light,” these are the busy-work doohickies that can be found at most city streetlight intersections. Seasoned city slickers probably allow themselves a private chuckle when someone actually presses the button, expecting a green light light that will come sooner than that crazy scheduled light change.
In New York City, at least, we have have two buttons on any corner; you known, to signal which direction you intend to cross, north or east, south or west.
In Rockville Centre, they have only one button per corner. How this is supposed to tell the computerized traffic gods which light you hope to turn which color is beyond me, but the fact that residents – seniors, workers, businessman, school children and crossing guards, alike – dependably press this button while waiting for a light change kinda warms my heart. I envy that naive faith in truth in advertising, governmental honesty and patience as a virtue.
Come to think of it, I saw a lot of Bush re-election bumper stickers there, too.
Everyone You Know Someday Will Die
This is going to be unforgivably morbid.
A lawsuit has been filed against the Port Authority by the kin of those who died in the 1993 car bombing of the World Trade Center. Without comment on the lawsuit, which has serious merits, one motivation is dubious. According to the NY Times:
“Among survivors of the first attack, which left six people dead and more than 1,000 injured, there has long been a feeling of neglect, as if their suffering was not valued as highly as that of the people who endured the horrors of Sept. 11, 2001. There was no federally engineered compensation fund, no blue-ribbon panel to apportion blame.”
Well, geez, whose death is as valued as those who perished in the attack on New York four years ago? And what, exactly, is fair about valuing any random death over another? We have in the Gulf Coast devastation wrought by hurricane Katrina a clear example of our weird priorities. Only weeks later, as the death toll reaches 9/11-like proportions, is there anything approaching the outrage that was palpable in this country four years ago. Maybe it’s because we can’t bomb God and Nature in retaliation, or maybe it’s because we’re so numb to daily life that doesn’t directly affect us that we’re only moved by astronomical body counts.
I’m working again – organizing – and without giving too much away, I am brought in daily contact with senior citizens (shucks, I’ve probably given it away). I met a woman the other day who was all too eager to talk about her life’s tragedies with anyone who would listen, particularly any young man who reminded her of her own son, who died years ago at the age of 33. Apparently he got into an argument with a friend of his, which resulted in a karate chop to the neck and a death from internal bleeding a few days later. Totally random and tragic, but who’s left to mourn him except his elderly mom and maybe an old flame, if he’s lucky? The old woman still beamed with pride over her lost son. She talked about the flashy job in finance he had landed a year or two before he died. He worked for some firm on the hundred-and-somethingth floor of the World Trade Center. “He would have died anyway,” she said wistfully.
Of course he would have. Everyone you know someday will die. So why privilege certain deaths over others?
Why do the 9/11 widows get to veto any kind of cultural space downtown that acknowledges the USA’s imperialism? Why is Cindy Sheehan’s voice privileged over those of the moms whose kids didn’t die in Iraq, or over the kids themselves who have yet to be shipped there?
My younger brother was at the World Trade Center on that fateful day in 1993, part of a third grade field trip to the observation deck. And had that been an airplane bomb instead of a car bomb, then I would be devastated by the loss of my kid brother and probably still climbing on the soapbox afforded me. But my brother will still die one day (I promised this would be morbid, Brian), and if I’m still around to see it, I’ll still be devastated. So why the double standard over everyday tragedies?
“You just don’t fit in.”
Apparently, to soften the blow from being fired from her reality show, contestants on Martha Stewart’s new version of “The Apprentice” will be told, “You just don’t fit in.”
Ha! Where have I heard that one before?
Does the NY Times Have a Homophobic Mandate?
Urban life for the straight guy is apparently quite the minefield these days. With all these homosexuals and metrosexuals running around, pinching bottoms and getting pedicures, a regular guy has to be ever-vigilant, lest an innocent dinner with another regular guy friend end in a mutual suck-fest. Thank goodness for those arbiters of social interactions at the NY Times Style section, who this week shine a light on an act that most adult men have been engaging in for as long as we can remember, but, well, might be a little gay: The Man Date.
Although the term was admittedly coined for the article, it already comes with a lengthy set of definitions and rules:
Simply defined a man date is two heterosexual men socializing without the crutch of business or sports. It is two guys meeting for the kind of outing a straight man might reasonably arrange with a woman. Dining together across a table without the aid of a television is a man date; eating at a bar is not. Taking a walk in the park together is a man date; going for a jog is not. Attending the movie “Friday Night Lights” is a man date, but going to see the Jets play is definitely not.
The author if this article, the absurdly named Jennifer 8. Lee, is clearly seeking the cultural cachet of coining a cutesy buzzword that will spread virally until it winds up in your grandparents’ vocabulary and Webster’s dictionary. And for this inauspicious goal she trots out tired old gay panic tropes? The Times deserves to get some letters about this.