The Awl http://www.theawl.com/ Be Less Stupid Thu, 20 Aug 2009 09:52:31 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.0.2 How Race Is Lived In America http://www.theawl.com/2009/08/how-race-is-lived-in-america http://www.theawl.com/2009/08/how-race-is-lived-in-america#comments Thu, 20 Aug 2009 09:52:31 +0000 Alex Balk http://www.theawl.com/2009/08/how-race-is-lived-in-america I fought the power by buying the Criterion Collection DVD!So last night I was meeting a couple of friends for drinks in Brooklyn, which is always a dicey situation because I have no idea where the hell anything is in that borough and am reliant on cab drivers or bad directions from the subway to get to my destination. (Those of you from out of town should know that Brooklyn is laid out completely illogically, with bizarre and unpronounceable road names rather than an orderly set of numbered streets and avenues. There is also, excepting for a couple of bridges and a place that is famous for cheesecake, a distinct lack of local landmarks by which one might orient oneself.) Because of the sweltering heat and a recent bounty that fell into my lap via the good offices of the New York State Lottery Commission, Scratch-Off Card division, I felt both sweaty and flush enough to take a taxi. This was my first mistake.

As I've said, I have no clue about where things are in Brooklyn, but it soon became clear that my driver was even more clueless. Once we reached a point where even I knew that we had completely overshot my destination, I told him to let me off on the corner, tipped him more than charitably considering his ineptitude, and ventured out into the darkness of Kings County.

Undaunted, I wandered through the streets, seeking the aid of anyone who might help me reach my meeting place. Normally I'm disinclined to ask for directions, but I am from New York, and there was no way I was going to let Brooklyn defeat me. I came upon an African-American woman in her late forties who was walking a large dog. With a big, friendly smile on my face, I inquired if she might help point me toward where I needed to go. She did not respond. I politely repeated myself.

"Don't approach me and don't address me," she said. "You're not welcome in this neighborhood."

I was a little stunned, but I did my best to be understanding. Perhaps I was out of place. I mean, I guess if that were where I lived and I saw some fat, sweaty WOP walking around aimlessly, I might suspect that he was looking for drugs or something.

Which was an ironic supposition on my part, because not two seconds later, I saw a gentleman who was actually selling them. He passed a glassine envelope through the window of a car and was handed a large stack of bills. I waited the appropriate amount of time after the transaction had been completed and asked if he could direct me.

"I don't know this part of town at all," he said. "That motherfucker over there," he said, indicating the motherfucker in question by pointing to an SUV idling on the corner, "is supposed to be the one who knows where we are, but he doesn't know anything."

I commiserated on the difficulties of being disoriented in an unfamiliar part of the city and moved along. I finally came upon some sort of manufacturing establishment and asked the gentleman sitting outside on an overturned milk crate if he knew where the location I was already late in arriving to might be. He indicated the he did not habla, but beckoned to a co-worker who was right inside. This fellow was indeed familiar with the neighborhood, and gave me some rather helpful guidance.

"You want to go down four blocks and over three. But go down the four first. You go over three you're gonna go through the projects. White boy like you? They'd eat you alive."

I thanked him and did as he said, but the whole experience rankled and still does. (And God knows I am never going back to Cobble Hill again.) Now, look, I understand that no matter what some wish to believe we still have not reached any sort of racial harmony in this country. I am very familiar with the troubling issues of gentrification and class stratification that plague the city and play out on both municipal and personal levels each day. I could not be more sympathetic about these issues. But here's the thing: I'm Alex Balk. Not only did I vote for Barack Obama, I wrote very compelling blog posts on several different websites encouraging others to do so as well. I read both of Ralph Wiley's collections of essays on race, even though the second one felt kind of phoned in. I sided with Henry Louis Gates over that white cop! Seriously, black people, what else does a guy gotta do to get over with you all? The problem of the 21st Century, thus far, has been the problem of the color line, specifically as it relates to Alex Balk not being able to get directions from black folks. And until we solve that problem, I don't think any of us can honestly say that the promises made by Abraham Lincoln have been kept or that the dreams of our great civil rights leaders have gone undeferred. I think we all need to work a little more closely for the hope and change for which we've been waiting so long. Thank you.

---

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]]> I fought the power by buying the Criterion Collection DVD!So last night I was meeting a couple of friends for drinks in Brooklyn, which is always a dicey situation because I have no idea where the hell anything is in that borough and am reliant on cab drivers or bad directions from the subway to get to my destination. (Those of you from out of town should know that Brooklyn is laid out completely illogically, with bizarre and unpronounceable road names rather than an orderly set of numbered streets and avenues. There is also, excepting for a couple of bridges and a place that is famous for cheesecake, a distinct lack of local landmarks by which one might orient oneself.) Because of the sweltering heat and a recent bounty that fell into my lap via the good offices of the New York State Lottery Commission, Scratch-Off Card division, I felt both sweaty and flush enough to take a taxi. This was my first mistake.

As I've said, I have no clue about where things are in Brooklyn, but it soon became clear that my driver was even more clueless. Once we reached a point where even I knew that we had completely overshot my destination, I told him to let me off on the corner, tipped him more than charitably considering his ineptitude, and ventured out into the darkness of Kings County.

Undaunted, I wandered through the streets, seeking the aid of anyone who might help me reach my meeting place. Normally I'm disinclined to ask for directions, but I am from New York, and there was no way I was going to let Brooklyn defeat me. I came upon an African-American woman in her late forties who was walking a large dog. With a big, friendly smile on my face, I inquired if she might help point me toward where I needed to go. She did not respond. I politely repeated myself.

"Don't approach me and don't address me," she said. "You're not welcome in this neighborhood."

I was a little stunned, but I did my best to be understanding. Perhaps I was out of place. I mean, I guess if that were where I lived and I saw some fat, sweaty WOP walking around aimlessly, I might suspect that he was looking for drugs or something.

Which was an ironic supposition on my part, because not two seconds later, I saw a gentleman who was actually selling them. He passed a glassine envelope through the window of a car and was handed a large stack of bills. I waited the appropriate amount of time after the transaction had been completed and asked if he could direct me.

"I don't know this part of town at all," he said. "That motherfucker over there," he said, indicating the motherfucker in question by pointing to an SUV idling on the corner, "is supposed to be the one who knows where we are, but he doesn't know anything."

I commiserated on the difficulties of being disoriented in an unfamiliar part of the city and moved along. I finally came upon some sort of manufacturing establishment and asked the gentleman sitting outside on an overturned milk crate if he knew where the location I was already late in arriving to might be. He indicated the he did not habla, but beckoned to a co-worker who was right inside. This fellow was indeed familiar with the neighborhood, and gave me some rather helpful guidance.

"You want to go down four blocks and over three. But go down the four first. You go over three you're gonna go through the projects. White boy like you? They'd eat you alive."

I thanked him and did as he said, but the whole experience rankled and still does. (And God knows I am never going back to Cobble Hill again.) Now, look, I understand that no matter what some wish to believe we still have not reached any sort of racial harmony in this country. I am very familiar with the troubling issues of gentrification and class stratification that plague the city and play out on both municipal and personal levels each day. I could not be more sympathetic about these issues. But here's the thing: I'm Alex Balk. Not only did I vote for Barack Obama, I wrote very compelling blog posts on several different websites encouraging others to do so as well. I read both of Ralph Wiley's collections of essays on race, even though the second one felt kind of phoned in. I sided with Henry Louis Gates over that white cop! Seriously, black people, what else does a guy gotta do to get over with you all? The problem of the 21st Century, thus far, has been the problem of the color line, specifically as it relates to Alex Balk not being able to get directions from black folks. And until we solve that problem, I don't think any of us can honestly say that the promises made by Abraham Lincoln have been kept or that the dreams of our great civil rights leaders have gone undeferred. I think we all need to work a little more closely for the hope and change for which we've been waiting so long. Thank you.

---

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104 comments

]]> http://www.theawl.com/2009/08/how-race-is-lived-in-america/feed 104 My Brush With Death, Or I Am Not As Cool As I Think http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/my-brush-with-death-or-i-am-not-as-cool-as-i-think http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/my-brush-with-death-or-i-am-not-as-cool-as-i-think#comments Wed, 22 Jul 2009 11:10:43 +0000 Alex Balk http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/my-brush-with-death-or-i-am-not-as-cool-as-i-think I had some work to do this morning that was not going to get done if I sat at home, what with the many potential distractions of television, Nintendo DS, staring out the window, grouting the bathroom tile, etc., so I forced myself out of the apartment and stepped into a Starbucks, where I got myself situated in a corner with a couple of ice coffees and plugged in my battery. I had been so consumed by my own concerns over doing what I needed to do that I didn't notice there was something unusual happening until I saw another adapter plugged into the outlet next to mine. It was connected to an unattended laptop which, it turned out, belonged to a gentleman sitting on the ground next to the sugar and napkin island a few feet away. He was speaking very slowly and methodically on his cellphone. It quickly became clear that he was talking to the police.

He was spelling out his last name, military style ("Victor, Bravo, etc.") until he was interrupted by the person of the other end of the phone, who must have told him that it was unnecessary. It was impossible to ignore his conversation, and it soon emerged that he had seen a suspicious bag somewhere, and that a pair of police officers to whom he had previously pointed out the package were dismissive and had left without investigating. One of the baristas came over, apparently not for the first time, to discuss it with him, but he waved him off, saying he was talking with the NYPD and not to disturb him. It seemed one of your regular disorderly patron situations.

This went on for a couple of minutes until a pair of police officers entered the store. Since this was all happening approximately ten feet away from me I figured at this point I'd put aside what I was doing and see how the whole thing played out. The two women, who were both extremely professional, asked him to explain why they were there. He gestured to his right, and it was at then that I realized the suspicious package about which he had been so agitated was right next to him, in the store. He was a regular, he said, and he had seen the bag when he'd come in, and he waited for someone to retrieve it for several minutes, and when no one did, he called the police, who had ignored it, and that's where we were.

One of the two cops reached down to grab the bag and the gentleman got extremely agitated, ordering her not to touch it. She explained that if there had been an actual bomb in the bag his cellphone use would have set it off already. He replied that, if there were some sort of trigger on the device, using his cell wouldn't have made any difference. Then he stood up very slowly and said, "Look, if you're going to do that at least wait until I clear out of here, because I don't want to be here when it explodes." He unplugged his charger, scooped up his laptop, muttered the phrase "see something, say something," and left. Those of us who had been watching from nearby tables remained in our seats.

I looked at the bag. It was one of those treated-paper store bags from one of your higher-end clothing places-the kind, say, your mother fills up with food when she puts you back on the train after you come out for a Sunday visit (particularly if your mother is mine)-and in it was another bag, possibly from the Gap, which appeared to be full.

The manager came up to the police and explained that the gentleman was, in fact, a regular, and that this morning was unusual, but that they were unable to dissuade him from making a scene.

The cop on the left shined a flashlight on the bag. She picked it up.

And... nothing. It was full of clothes. The cops handed the manager the bag, he disposed of it in the trash, and, after a minute or two, the cops left.

So, anyway, here's the thing: You live in New York, you learn to deal with the crazies. You get good at blocking out random mania in its many forms. And, of course, after the events of eight years ago, you've trained yourself not to flip out over every possible terrorist attack, no matter how ridiculous, because, really, what are the odds, and more importantly, you cannot function in a society if you spend every waking moment looking over your shoulder in fear.

That said: For a brief moment when the cop leaned down to pick up the bag I was very, very conscious of the fact that there might actually be a bomb in it. The first thing I thought, sadly enough, was, "Jesus, this laptop is all I have left. I hope it doesn't get damaged." Then I wondered if my license would survive whatever incendiary device was about to explode me so that my charred remains could at least be identified. Then I thought-and you know how these things go, it all happened simultaneously, in the space of second-So this is it. This is how it ends.

Then she picked up the bag.

I won't lie. I'm still a little shaken. (It happened about ten minutes ago, as of this writing.) I'm angry with the guy, angry with the situation, and mostly angry with myself, by being so affected by it. I allowed a man for whom the stress of living in this city got to be too much one morning and for whom a random unattended package became a precipitating event in his letting out some of the crazy to put me on edge to the point where I abandoned what I was doing to get this whole thing down. I should not be this rattled, and yet I am. So I'm angry. Because I thought I was better than that. And, like so many assumptions one makes about themselves, when faced with reality (or even-especially!-unreality), it turned out not to be the case.

On the plus side, the manager came around after and distributed coupons for a free cup of coffee to those of us who were here for the whole thing. So at least I've got that to look forward to.

---

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58 comments

]]> I had some work to do this morning that was not going to get done if I sat at home, what with the many potential distractions of television, Nintendo DS, staring out the window, grouting the bathroom tile, etc., so I forced myself out of the apartment and stepped into a Starbucks, where I got myself situated in a corner with a couple of ice coffees and plugged in my battery. I had been so consumed by my own concerns over doing what I needed to do that I didn't notice there was something unusual happening until I saw another adapter plugged into the outlet next to mine. It was connected to an unattended laptop which, it turned out, belonged to a gentleman sitting on the ground next to the sugar and napkin island a few feet away. He was speaking very slowly and methodically on his cellphone. It quickly became clear that he was talking to the police.

He was spelling out his last name, military style ("Victor, Bravo, etc.") until he was interrupted by the person of the other end of the phone, who must have told him that it was unnecessary. It was impossible to ignore his conversation, and it soon emerged that he had seen a suspicious bag somewhere, and that a pair of police officers to whom he had previously pointed out the package were dismissive and had left without investigating. One of the baristas came over, apparently not for the first time, to discuss it with him, but he waved him off, saying he was talking with the NYPD and not to disturb him. It seemed one of your regular disorderly patron situations.

This went on for a couple of minutes until a pair of police officers entered the store. Since this was all happening approximately ten feet away from me I figured at this point I'd put aside what I was doing and see how the whole thing played out. The two women, who were both extremely professional, asked him to explain why they were there. He gestured to his right, and it was at then that I realized the suspicious package about which he had been so agitated was right next to him, in the store. He was a regular, he said, and he had seen the bag when he'd come in, and he waited for someone to retrieve it for several minutes, and when no one did, he called the police, who had ignored it, and that's where we were.

One of the two cops reached down to grab the bag and the gentleman got extremely agitated, ordering her not to touch it. She explained that if there had been an actual bomb in the bag his cellphone use would have set it off already. He replied that, if there were some sort of trigger on the device, using his cell wouldn't have made any difference. Then he stood up very slowly and said, "Look, if you're going to do that at least wait until I clear out of here, because I don't want to be here when it explodes." He unplugged his charger, scooped up his laptop, muttered the phrase "see something, say something," and left. Those of us who had been watching from nearby tables remained in our seats.

I looked at the bag. It was one of those treated-paper store bags from one of your higher-end clothing places-the kind, say, your mother fills up with food when she puts you back on the train after you come out for a Sunday visit (particularly if your mother is mine)-and in it was another bag, possibly from the Gap, which appeared to be full.

The manager came up to the police and explained that the gentleman was, in fact, a regular, and that this morning was unusual, but that they were unable to dissuade him from making a scene.

The cop on the left shined a flashlight on the bag. She picked it up.

And... nothing. It was full of clothes. The cops handed the manager the bag, he disposed of it in the trash, and, after a minute or two, the cops left.

So, anyway, here's the thing: You live in New York, you learn to deal with the crazies. You get good at blocking out random mania in its many forms. And, of course, after the events of eight years ago, you've trained yourself not to flip out over every possible terrorist attack, no matter how ridiculous, because, really, what are the odds, and more importantly, you cannot function in a society if you spend every waking moment looking over your shoulder in fear.

That said: For a brief moment when the cop leaned down to pick up the bag I was very, very conscious of the fact that there might actually be a bomb in it. The first thing I thought, sadly enough, was, "Jesus, this laptop is all I have left. I hope it doesn't get damaged." Then I wondered if my license would survive whatever incendiary device was about to explode me so that my charred remains could at least be identified. Then I thought-and you know how these things go, it all happened simultaneously, in the space of second-So this is it. This is how it ends.

Then she picked up the bag.

I won't lie. I'm still a little shaken. (It happened about ten minutes ago, as of this writing.) I'm angry with the guy, angry with the situation, and mostly angry with myself, by being so affected by it. I allowed a man for whom the stress of living in this city got to be too much one morning and for whom a random unattended package became a precipitating event in his letting out some of the crazy to put me on edge to the point where I abandoned what I was doing to get this whole thing down. I should not be this rattled, and yet I am. So I'm angry. Because I thought I was better than that. And, like so many assumptions one makes about themselves, when faced with reality (or even-especially!-unreality), it turned out not to be the case.

On the plus side, the manager came around after and distributed coupons for a free cup of coffee to those of us who were here for the whole thing. So at least I've got that to look forward to.

---

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58 comments

]]> http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/my-brush-with-death-or-i-am-not-as-cool-as-i-think/feed 58 Ego Te Absolvo http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/ego-te-absolvo http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/ego-te-absolvo#comments Tue, 07 Jul 2009 08:00:24 +0000 Alex Balk http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/ego-te-absolvo My sleep was deeply troubled last night, and the early dawn made clear that there would be no catching up the lost hours on the other side of the morning, so I rose early and began trudging down to the Awl offices. Along Second Avenue I found myself behind a gentleman who was wearing the rumpled clothes of the previous evening. At first I thought the might be one of the new summer homeless, but he stopped at the corner and hailed a cab. After telling the driver his destination, he lowered his head and held his face in his hand-the universal symbol of regret.

Well, life's just hard as it is. None of us know what the future holds. But in the spirit of renewal, on a day that has at least started out sunny and bright, and by the power vested in me as a nationally-ranked Print/Online Reporter, I hereby absolve you all for any bad decisions you made yesterday. (Even attending Capoeira class.) Go about your day head held high, and know you have been forgiven. Also, good morning! Let's all get through it together.

---

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]]> My sleep was deeply troubled last night, and the early dawn made clear that there would be no catching up the lost hours on the other side of the morning, so I rose early and began trudging down to the Awl offices. Along Second Avenue I found myself behind a gentleman who was wearing the rumpled clothes of the previous evening. At first I thought the might be one of the new summer homeless, but he stopped at the corner and hailed a cab. After telling the driver his destination, he lowered his head and held his face in his hand-the universal symbol of regret.

Well, life's just hard as it is. None of us know what the future holds. But in the spirit of renewal, on a day that has at least started out sunny and bright, and by the power vested in me as a nationally-ranked Print/Online Reporter, I hereby absolve you all for any bad decisions you made yesterday. (Even attending Capoeira class.) Go about your day head held high, and know you have been forgiven. Also, good morning! Let's all get through it together.

---

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24 comments

]]> http://www.theawl.com/2009/07/ego-te-absolvo/feed 24 Evening Bonus: A Look Into My Soul http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/evening-bonus-a-look-into-my-soul http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/evening-bonus-a-look-into-my-soul#comments Tue, 16 Jun 2009 21:14:25 +0000 Alex Balk http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/evening-bonus-a-look-into-my-soul Apologies. For whatever reason, today was rough. I don't feel like I gave you enough content. So here's a little something extra, just for you:

A lot of people ask me, "Alex, what's the saddest thing you ever saw?" And I'm going to be honest, I've seen a lot of sad things. You can't live as long as I have, you can't feel as deeply as I do, without having borne witness to some terrible, heartbreaking visions. But I would have to say that the saddest thing I ever saw was, on its face, ostensibly quite ordinary.

It was 1996, and I was on a business trip in some unbearable suburb of Chicago. A jaunt to the local mall, in an attempt to stimulate my appetite for the bounteous feast I was due to have at Bennigan's later that evening, resulted in my wandering by a stationery store where I saw in the window a ceramic utensil holder which bore the image of a piteous ursine fellow clutching in one pathetic paw a small number of writing implements alongside the legend, "I'd be beary, beary upset if you took all of my pencils."

I mean, all well and good, but, ultimately? Heartbreaking. Because the fact that an object like that would be mass-produced presumes that there's an enough of an audience to justify such production, when, really, there are only two scenarios in which I can see it being purchased. Both of them assume the end consumer is someone who works in an office where pencils are at short supply and people are constantly coming up to his or her-and let's be honest, it's her: she's in her fifties or sixties, she's been doing this job for twenty-five years at least, she's as sweet as can be, and it has never occurred to her to want more (or, if it has, she's sublimated those yearnings to the traditions of family, religion, or regional custom) than what she has-desk and absent-mindedly making off with her pencils, so this is her light-hearted attempt at warding off such behavior.

In scenario one, Kathleen-or Terri, or Mary Anne, or whatever her name is, but something not outside the realm of the three already suggested-lives alone, has never been married or had children, has two or three siblings with a large number of offspring upon whom she dotes but can never quite make a connection with and always gives awkward presents to at birthdays and Christmases and sometimes allows herself to wonder if they aren't laughing at her once the door finally closes and she drives herself back to her small home after a holiday meal, sees the pencil holder in the mall and buys it for herself, thinking it will at least provide a small chuckle to her co-workers, who in her darker moments she also suspects of being derisive about her when she's not around. This is the less sad possibility.

In scenario two, Ellen-or Jayne, or SarahLynne, or whatever her name is, but something not outside the realm of the three already suggested-has a wonderful grandchild who thinks his Grandma is the greatest lady in the world and whose eyes light up every time he sees her and who remembers how much fun he had at her office the one time when she was watching him when Mommy was busy and how everyone there was so nice to him and how Grandma joked around about them stealing her pencils, well, when he turned eight and began getting an allowance, he started saving up his own money-his own money-so that he could buy her a special birthday present and when he saw the pencil holder at the mall he thought it was just the most perfect gift for the grandmother he loved so much, plus he was finally old enough to understand the wordplay, and even though his dad asked him more than once whether he was sure he wanted to waste his cash on a stupid pencil cup, he insisted on getting it for her and it may well have been the sweetest moment in her life. Six weeks later her beautiful grandbaby was playing in the yard with some friends of his and when one of them overthrew the ball he instinctively ran out into the street after it without looking and was struck by a car, hanging on just long enough for her to see his eyes roll back in his head while he was hooked up to so many machines in the hospital before passing away. Now the cup sits there on her desk each day, a horrible reminder of how she's lost the only grandchild she's ever had, but also something she's unwilling to part with because it's her sole remaining connection to the little boy whom she watched every day for the first year of his life while her daughter was finishing nursing school and who would cry in the evening each time his mother came to take him home because he did not want to be taken away from her.

Also, I felt bad for the bear.

So, yeah, that's the saddest thing I ever saw. I mean, as of now. I'm sure there'll be something else. There usually is.

---

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40 comments

]]> Apologies. For whatever reason, today was rough. I don't feel like I gave you enough content. So here's a little something extra, just for you:

A lot of people ask me, "Alex, what's the saddest thing you ever saw?" And I'm going to be honest, I've seen a lot of sad things. You can't live as long as I have, you can't feel as deeply as I do, without having borne witness to some terrible, heartbreaking visions. But I would have to say that the saddest thing I ever saw was, on its face, ostensibly quite ordinary.

It was 1996, and I was on a business trip in some unbearable suburb of Chicago. A jaunt to the local mall, in an attempt to stimulate my appetite for the bounteous feast I was due to have at Bennigan's later that evening, resulted in my wandering by a stationery store where I saw in the window a ceramic utensil holder which bore the image of a piteous ursine fellow clutching in one pathetic paw a small number of writing implements alongside the legend, "I'd be beary, beary upset if you took all of my pencils."

I mean, all well and good, but, ultimately? Heartbreaking. Because the fact that an object like that would be mass-produced presumes that there's an enough of an audience to justify such production, when, really, there are only two scenarios in which I can see it being purchased. Both of them assume the end consumer is someone who works in an office where pencils are at short supply and people are constantly coming up to his or her-and let's be honest, it's her: she's in her fifties or sixties, she's been doing this job for twenty-five years at least, she's as sweet as can be, and it has never occurred to her to want more (or, if it has, she's sublimated those yearnings to the traditions of family, religion, or regional custom) than what she has-desk and absent-mindedly making off with her pencils, so this is her light-hearted attempt at warding off such behavior.

In scenario one, Kathleen-or Terri, or Mary Anne, or whatever her name is, but something not outside the realm of the three already suggested-lives alone, has never been married or had children, has two or three siblings with a large number of offspring upon whom she dotes but can never quite make a connection with and always gives awkward presents to at birthdays and Christmases and sometimes allows herself to wonder if they aren't laughing at her once the door finally closes and she drives herself back to her small home after a holiday meal, sees the pencil holder in the mall and buys it for herself, thinking it will at least provide a small chuckle to her co-workers, who in her darker moments she also suspects of being derisive about her when she's not around. This is the less sad possibility.

In scenario two, Ellen-or Jayne, or SarahLynne, or whatever her name is, but something not outside the realm of the three already suggested-has a wonderful grandchild who thinks his Grandma is the greatest lady in the world and whose eyes light up every time he sees her and who remembers how much fun he had at her office the one time when she was watching him when Mommy was busy and how everyone there was so nice to him and how Grandma joked around about them stealing her pencils, well, when he turned eight and began getting an allowance, he started saving up his own money-his own money-so that he could buy her a special birthday present and when he saw the pencil holder at the mall he thought it was just the most perfect gift for the grandmother he loved so much, plus he was finally old enough to understand the wordplay, and even though his dad asked him more than once whether he was sure he wanted to waste his cash on a stupid pencil cup, he insisted on getting it for her and it may well have been the sweetest moment in her life. Six weeks later her beautiful grandbaby was playing in the yard with some friends of his and when one of them overthrew the ball he instinctively ran out into the street after it without looking and was struck by a car, hanging on just long enough for her to see his eyes roll back in his head while he was hooked up to so many machines in the hospital before passing away. Now the cup sits there on her desk each day, a horrible reminder of how she's lost the only grandchild she's ever had, but also something she's unwilling to part with because it's her sole remaining connection to the little boy whom she watched every day for the first year of his life while her daughter was finishing nursing school and who would cry in the evening each time his mother came to take him home because he did not want to be taken away from her.

Also, I felt bad for the bear.

So, yeah, that's the saddest thing I ever saw. I mean, as of now. I'm sure there'll be something else. There usually is.

---

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]]> http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/evening-bonus-a-look-into-my-soul/feed 40 Been a while since I emoted at ya... http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/been-a-while-since-i-emoted-at-ya http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/been-a-while-since-i-emoted-at-ya#comments Tue, 09 Jun 2009 17:13:33 +0000 Alex Balk http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/been-a-while-since-i-emoted-at-ya So I was walking up 1st Avenue this afternoon...and OH MY GOD IT IS DISGUSTING OUT THERE. I don't know what it's like wherever you are, but here in New York the humidity sticks to you like a mouse sticks to a glue trap. This is a serious problem if you are, say, a particularly hirsute gentleman who refuses to wear shorts and is carrying too many extra pounds around with him. My back hair is soaked and mottled, and there's a huge stain of sweat on the top of my pants from my overhanging gut. It made me think of all the terrible things that happen to people in the world, which made me reflective and sad, because no one suffers like I do. Anyway, seriously, it is gross outside. I am camping out in front of the A/C with a mess of bourbon and a tube of Pringles for the rest of the day.

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]]> So I was walking up 1st Avenue this afternoon...and OH MY GOD IT IS DISGUSTING OUT THERE. I don't know what it's like wherever you are, but here in New York the humidity sticks to you like a mouse sticks to a glue trap. This is a serious problem if you are, say, a particularly hirsute gentleman who refuses to wear shorts and is carrying too many extra pounds around with him. My back hair is soaked and mottled, and there's a huge stain of sweat on the top of my pants from my overhanging gut. It made me think of all the terrible things that happen to people in the world, which made me reflective and sad, because no one suffers like I do. Anyway, seriously, it is gross outside. I am camping out in front of the A/C with a mess of bourbon and a tube of Pringles for the rest of the day.

---

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]]> http://www.theawl.com/2009/06/been-a-while-since-i-emoted-at-ya/feed 40 Man Finds Profundity In Commonplace Experience: A Continuing Series http://www.theawl.com/2009/05/man-finds-profundity-in-commonplace-experience-a-continuing-series http://www.theawl.com/2009/05/man-finds-profundity-in-commonplace-experience-a-continuing-series#comments Wed, 27 May 2009 14:10:59 +0000 Alex Balk http://www.theawl.com/2009/05/man-finds-profundity-in-commonplace-experience-a-continuing-series Hey, it's another one of those patented Alex Balk Metropolitan Diaries! This one is even less relevant and more disgustingly sentimental than previous, if such a thing is possible, so if that's gonna gross you out go watch the premature ejaculation ad again instead. Anyway.

I was ambling over to The Awl offices this morning when I passed a father and son standing in front of what I assume is their apartment building. The kid must have been around 7 or 8; the dad was locking his Razor Scooter-or whatever the hell kids ride these days-into its upright position. I walked by briefly, but from the quick bit of conversation I overheard it was clear that the kid had begged to be able to ride it to school by himself and this was the first time he was being so allowed. His father was telling him that he should just ride normally and he'd be following behind.

"But what if there's a big crowd and you can't see me?" asked the son.

"You just know that I will never be too far behind you and I will always have my eyes on exactly where you are."

I was at the other end of the street by then, but it seemed to have put the kid at ease, and as I looked over my shoulder I saw him riding down the block, his father trailing behind. It was a sweet moment, and I guess that's why I'm sharing it. I thought about that line a little more as I continued my walk:

"You just know that I will never be too far behind you and I will always have my eyes on exactly where you are."

I'm not sure, but I imagine that's how some people feel about God. I guess I can understand the appeal.

---

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]]> Hey, it's another one of those patented Alex Balk Metropolitan Diaries! This one is even less relevant and more disgustingly sentimental than previous, if such a thing is possible, so if that's gonna gross you out go watch the premature ejaculation ad again instead. Anyway.

I was ambling over to The Awl offices this morning when I passed a father and son standing in front of what I assume is their apartment building. The kid must have been around 7 or 8; the dad was locking his Razor Scooter-or whatever the hell kids ride these days-into its upright position. I walked by briefly, but from the quick bit of conversation I overheard it was clear that the kid had begged to be able to ride it to school by himself and this was the first time he was being so allowed. His father was telling him that he should just ride normally and he'd be following behind.

"But what if there's a big crowd and you can't see me?" asked the son.

"You just know that I will never be too far behind you and I will always have my eyes on exactly where you are."

I was at the other end of the street by then, but it seemed to have put the kid at ease, and as I looked over my shoulder I saw him riding down the block, his father trailing behind. It was a sweet moment, and I guess that's why I'm sharing it. I thought about that line a little more as I continued my walk:

"You just know that I will never be too far behind you and I will always have my eyes on exactly where you are."

I'm not sure, but I imagine that's how some people feel about God. I guess I can understand the appeal.

---

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]]> http://www.theawl.com/2009/05/man-finds-profundity-in-commonplace-experience-a-continuing-series/feed 27 Do I consider myself a hero? Yes. Yes I do. http://www.theawl.com/2009/05/do-i-consider-myself-a-hero-yes-yes-i-do http://www.theawl.com/2009/05/do-i-consider-myself-a-hero-yes-yes-i-do#comments Wed, 13 May 2009 11:30:28 +0000 Alex Balk http://www.theawl.com/2009/05/do-i-consider-myself-a-hero-yes-yes-i-do Welcome to my Livejournal! Emotions and stuff follow, so if that's the kind of crap you cannot stand, do not read on!

So last night at around 7:30 I was on my way to Brooklyn to meet a friend for drinks. (Yes, sometimes I go to Brooklyn.) The train was packed, and I was standing pressed up against the door at the center of the car, reading a magazine, and generally ignoring my surroundings. The seat next to me became available, and a young woman sat down. A minute or two later she started sobbing. It was one of those sounds where you aren't sure at first whether a person is laughing or crying, but it soon became obvious that she was doing the latter.

One of the tough things about New York-any densely packed city, really-is you're so focused on maintaining personal space and minding your own business that when an event occurs where you actually do want to console a perfect stranger you freeze up and resist the impulse. I had no idea what she was crying about: it could have been a break-up, someone in her family may have been diagnosed with some terrible disease, it could simply have been a case of everything hitting at once. It didn't really matter; when something like that happens your natural human response is to reach out and do your best to soothe. But, again, who wants to be that intrusive dickhead who won't leave you alone to your suffering? (Plus, I had at least ten years on her; I didn't want to seem like some old letch.)

I wasn't alone. Everyone in the car tried to sneak a look at her and see if she was okay. It felt, at least to me, like everyone wanted to give her a hand. Of course, no one did; that would be breaking the rules. I tried to focus on my magazine.

After a couple of minutes the crying stopped, and I became very aware that she was looking at me.

"Don't think it won't happen to you," she said. "You, with your magazine."

This seemed an odd detail to pick out-did the magazine give me some air of prosperity and contentment? To be fair, I was reading the Weekly Standard, so she may have thought I was some rich asshole who is easily convinced by faulty logic, juvenile nitpickery, failed parodies, and really cheap paper. Actually, I am not sure why I read that magazine at all. It's TERRIBLE.

Anyway, I looked back at her. "Don't think what won't happen?"

She quietly responded, "Layoffs."

At this point we had crossed under to Brooklyn. I was about three stops away from my destination. I explained that I had been unemployed for five months. I asked her if her termination had happened today. She nodded.

"What was it?"

"My dream job," she said. "Something I loved."

The car was loud. I leaned over slightly and told her that I knew how she felt, how I wasn't going to say everything would be perfect, that I understood that it hurt now and that it would hurt more later. I told her that as terrible as it seemed, she needed to understand that it's how we react when things are going badly rather than how we react when everything's great that proves who were are. I offered every platitude and bromide that one can give in that situation, and many of the things I said are actually things I am somehow still able to convince myself of even in the face of my current situation, of our current situation. I told her to go get drunk. I told her tonight was a night to mourn and tomorrow was a night to plan. I was a subway Dr. Phil or something.

We came to my stop. I repeated the line about nothing ever being as bleak as it seems at the time. I told her that if she really loved her job and it was something she had to do, she would find a way to do it somehow. I said goodbye, and she reached out and grabbed my hand and mumbled "Thank you."

So, yes, human connection. A small moment where the city's indifferent mask gives way to a comforting smile. It's almost disconcerting. (It's disconcerting enough that I actually just wrote the line, "A small moment where the city's indifferent mask gives way to a comforting smile.") I'm sure you'll make your "Missed Connection" jokes or comments about "Why didn't you get her number?" but I didn't want her number. That brief period of time where I was able to help, if I was able to help, if it made any bit of difference, was all that mattered. I wish I were like that more often. But most days I'm just me, and everybody knows what that guy's like.

I thank you for your attention.

---

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61 comments

]]> Welcome to my Livejournal! Emotions and stuff follow, so if that's the kind of crap you cannot stand, do not read on!

So last night at around 7:30 I was on my way to Brooklyn to meet a friend for drinks. (Yes, sometimes I go to Brooklyn.) The train was packed, and I was standing pressed up against the door at the center of the car, reading a magazine, and generally ignoring my surroundings. The seat next to me became available, and a young woman sat down. A minute or two later she started sobbing. It was one of those sounds where you aren't sure at first whether a person is laughing or crying, but it soon became obvious that she was doing the latter.

One of the tough things about New York-any densely packed city, really-is you're so focused on maintaining personal space and minding your own business that when an event occurs where you actually do want to console a perfect stranger you freeze up and resist the impulse. I had no idea what she was crying about: it could have been a break-up, someone in her family may have been diagnosed with some terrible disease, it could simply have been a case of everything hitting at once. It didn't really matter; when something like that happens your natural human response is to reach out and do your best to soothe. But, again, who wants to be that intrusive dickhead who won't leave you alone to your suffering? (Plus, I had at least ten years on her; I didn't want to seem like some old letch.)

I wasn't alone. Everyone in the car tried to sneak a look at her and see if she was okay. It felt, at least to me, like everyone wanted to give her a hand. Of course, no one did; that would be breaking the rules. I tried to focus on my magazine.

After a couple of minutes the crying stopped, and I became very aware that she was looking at me.

"Don't think it won't happen to you," she said. "You, with your magazine."

This seemed an odd detail to pick out-did the magazine give me some air of prosperity and contentment? To be fair, I was reading the Weekly Standard, so she may have thought I was some rich asshole who is easily convinced by faulty logic, juvenile nitpickery, failed parodies, and really cheap paper. Actually, I am not sure why I read that magazine at all. It's TERRIBLE.

Anyway, I looked back at her. "Don't think what won't happen?"

She quietly responded, "Layoffs."

At this point we had crossed under to Brooklyn. I was about three stops away from my destination. I explained that I had been unemployed for five months. I asked her if her termination had happened today. She nodded.

"What was it?"

"My dream job," she said. "Something I loved."

The car was loud. I leaned over slightly and told her that I knew how she felt, how I wasn't going to say everything would be perfect, that I understood that it hurt now and that it would hurt more later. I told her that as terrible as it seemed, she needed to understand that it's how we react when things are going badly rather than how we react when everything's great that proves who were are. I offered every platitude and bromide that one can give in that situation, and many of the things I said are actually things I am somehow still able to convince myself of even in the face of my current situation, of our current situation. I told her to go get drunk. I told her tonight was a night to mourn and tomorrow was a night to plan. I was a subway Dr. Phil or something.

We came to my stop. I repeated the line about nothing ever being as bleak as it seems at the time. I told her that if she really loved her job and it was something she had to do, she would find a way to do it somehow. I said goodbye, and she reached out and grabbed my hand and mumbled "Thank you."

So, yes, human connection. A small moment where the city's indifferent mask gives way to a comforting smile. It's almost disconcerting. (It's disconcerting enough that I actually just wrote the line, "A small moment where the city's indifferent mask gives way to a comforting smile.") I'm sure you'll make your "Missed Connection" jokes or comments about "Why didn't you get her number?" but I didn't want her number. That brief period of time where I was able to help, if I was able to help, if it made any bit of difference, was all that mattered. I wish I were like that more often. But most days I'm just me, and everybody knows what that guy's like.

I thank you for your attention.

---

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