A rafter, smack, charm

I've learned a lot of things from researching for Throbbing Brains. Most recently, I learned a lot of animal plurals. A group of turkeys is referred to as a "rafter" of turkeys. A group of jellyfish is a "smack" of jellyfish. Hummingbirds = a charm, hippos = a herd or bloat, gerbils = a horde, hedgehogs = an array. The turkey one can actually be used for about a month each year, around Thanksgiving time. The others have more limited applications, but if you're determined, you can definitely include them in conversation.

Earshot!

Lainie Goldwert wants you to know that you can witness the next Earshot reading series PLUS get a free drink all for $6. Somehow, it's true. This Saturday, July 30th, at 8pm. Lainie herself will be reading, as well as other "emerging talent." Sounds a painful blemish. Or like the talent is a cautious moose, about to enter a meadow from a very dark forest. Anyway, I'm sure none of the talent present (or any of the non-talent) will be blemish-like. But, moose, who knows? The place to be this Saturday, July 30th, at 8pm? Cafe Ludlow, at 87 Ludlow, off Delancey.

More Music, More Funny, More Better

That's how the next Throbbing Brains will be. I feel confident about this for three reasons. The first is because Soraya and I just got back from Lily Dale, New York, one of the largest and oldest communities of mediums in America ( recently profiled in the NY Times), and while there, consulted with Richard Pryor, Bon Scott, and Mae West. We received some valuable insights, and even though I want to tell you some of the incredible things they said, that wouldn't be good showmanship. All I can say is: don't wear anything particularly flammable to the next show. The second reason is because I just got a hott hookup to some outstanding quiz questions. The third is that it looks like Dilip and Richard will both be in attendance, so things couldn't actually get much more awesome. With regard to the Throbbing Brains this week: Congratulations to Team Hot Dip and Team Short Bus. Clearly, you are very blessed and special people. However, I still am incredibly proud of Team Funky Cold Medina for being 2/3 right about the countries with the largest Muslim populations. You guys are so much more worldly and well-informed than I am.

Brooklyn: The Bleeding Edge of Hip

It's definitely official. I have my very first practice with my polka partner Richard in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, on June 26th. Less than a month later, Aaron McGruder sounds the first warning to the mainstream that polka is the next big thing. That's right, the strip above appeared in papers nationwide on July 21st. If you can't live in Brooklyn, Boondocks is your next best bet, you get the news only a month later. Rents are high cuz if you wanna know what the future will look like, you gotta pay. No-carb is out: beer is in. Screen-printed t-shirts out: Polka dots in. Accordions - in, IN, IN.

My Invisibubble

This is to announce, since nobody has noticed, that I have colored my hair. "Redwood Auburn." It's temporary, so this imperceptible improvement (impairment?) to my appearance should be duly noted before it is no more. I wanted to shake things up a little, have a low-grade adventure. I thought that temporarily having reddish hair would thrill my public (um, the students who stream in and out of here are my public, I guess --oh, and all the fantastic people who are at Throbbing Brains) and give me subtle verve and power. And that maybe I'd also magically look more completely like Hilda (she's the one in the pic). However, my hair did not become "brighter not lighter," it became darker, and seems to have remained at its original level of brightness. Hilda's still fantastique, however, check her out.

Live Bee Coverage

Indefatigable Jen Dziura has created a snazzy new feature for the Williamsburg Spelling Bee -- live spelling bee coverage! Last night I served as the first guest blogger. There will be many more to come, and they will no doubt shame me with their speedy, accurate typing, and ability to hear and remember people's names. The liveness of the blogging prevented me from doing much editing, and I have discovered that my natural reporting style is (as I noted) a breathless Tiger Beat zeal colored with the blinking naivete of Jackie Harvey, The Onion's Outside Scoop columnist. You can see my freshman liveblog efforts (and the efforts of those who will follow) at www.spellingblog.blogspot.com. The next bee is August 8th, and the guest blogger will be Jonathan Lill, last night's first-place champion.

Summer Ideal for Rage-Based Cleaning

I've found an excellent use for the misanthropy and resentment I experience after a few minutes in the NYC summer sun. Rage-based cleaning. By the time I get into my balmy apartment I hate everything so much that it's very easy to throw things into give-away bags. Since I had a lot of cleaning up to do, yesterday I turned off the air conditioner to ensure the longevity of my snappishness, and began dispatching once-beloved objects into grocery bags for the Salvation Army. I totally recommend this.

Baked Goods Influence Fates of Nations

I've been trying harder recently to keep abreast of all the breaking government related scandals and outrages. However, because I'm five, apparently, every time I read about "yellowcake uranium" I keep thinking, "Yellowcake? I didn't know Little Debbie made uranium! Damn."

Throbbing Paw (Preview Pics!)

Oh yeah. It's Throbbing Brains time again! Tuesday, July 26th at 7:30 you too have the chance to wow people with your potent gray matter. (Is anyone else beginning to notice an overabundance of the words "gray" and "brains" here? Between the quiz show and the work-zombies it's getting ridiculous.) SOUTHPAW is where it's at and the same rules as before: free to watch, $2 into the cash pool to join a team and pit yourself against other smarties, and a rollicking time for all. Five person limit on teams, and five teams per round. Oh, and we won't actually be playing Wheel of Fish, but "UHF" is a fine film. Daya and I used to watch it together all the time. That and "What's Up, Doc?" -- another underrated classic. One of the best chase scenes ever. I'll see you at Southpaw at 7:30, when Soraya (she really is that pretty!) and I will begin to sing our Songs of Anthemic Tribute for last month's winners, the Milltown Codgers and the Mensa Maniacs.

Jiminy Cricket the Parole Officer

I’ve finally been sucked into the MoveOn cult. I knew it was only a matter of time – it was founded by my fellow Simon’s Rock alum Eli Pariser, so I’ve been aware of it for a while. Now that I’m a member I’m amazed at the bulldog-like grip they have on me. A day does not go by without an email from them, and the other day I even got a voicemail. It made me think that signing up with MoveOn is sort of like identifying that you aren’t really a strong or committed enough person to act on your own convictions but would like to do the “right” (ha!) thing, and are therefore requesting that somebody else be your aggressive external conscience.

You know they’re only telling you to do what you already believe is right, but wouldn’t probably do without harassment. You can’t escape their watchful eyes and incendiary emails. I feel them glaring at me when I accidentally throw paper in the garbage instead of the recycling. Peccavi! As it turns out, I have what has been reasonably termed an “overactive” conscience. So I’m getting a little jittery from the regular reminders of my morally feeble behavior. On the bright side, I’m thinking it will encourage me to go easier on myself, ‘cause there’s just no way I’m going to be able to do all these good things I feel I ought to. Perhaps externalizing my shrieking moral outrage and browbeating will train me to develop a less scrupulous attitude about my imperfect rectitude.

Process Focused (Not Goal Oriented) Stabbing

I was talking with a friend about her recent experiences as a juror. Initially we discussed some of the hilarious regionalisms employed by the lawyers. (“At first I didn’t know what they were talking about when they kept saying ‘according to the lore.’ I was like, ‘What does folklore have to do with an assault case?’ Then they were talking about what witnesses sore, and I realized what was going on. Accents.”)

Then she told me that one of her fellow jurors was shocked to learn that all shootings and stabbings were considered attempted manslaughter. In this particular case the victim had been stabbed through the ribs and thereby had a lung collapse. Apparently, this juror opined that some people might be shooting or stabbing others just because they were angry, or solely with the intent to injure or scare them, and shouldn’t be treated the same way as people who definitely intended for their victims to die. At least we know he’s really reflecting on these issues.

Carefully Concealing My Attractive Brain

One of the obstacles I’ve faced in the last few weeks is that my workspace is (temporarily!) located in a squat, grim, drab ghost building which houses an eerily high number of zombies. A majority of the people I see on my way to and from the bathroom have dull, undead eyes and a telling paucity of what the poncy call “joie de vivre.” This decrepit rockpile is definitely more deathwish than Lust For Life.

I mostly stay in my brightly walled closed-door holding pen away from others, but every time I sneak out of my cell I encounter the same squat, grim, drab lurching zombie woman. Apparently she’s paid to smoke in front of the building and socialize with other denizens (both live and undead) of the building. I’m singling her out because she’s creepily ubiquitous. She’s actually one of the most approachable zombies who haunt the hallways. The ones who move more slowly and have grayer skin and stare with groany-looking eyes are the ones who really disturb me. If I could just convert a section of my box to a bathroom I’d only have to go out to flee to the streets at the end of the day.

For now I’m trying to be very subdued when I’m out of my fortress to fool the zombies into thinking I’m only minimally alive. If they realize how sparkly and active my brain is they will definitely try to eat it and that would totally impede my ascent up the corporate ladder. And cramp my social life. So, sssh, if you see anybody in this building; move slowly, try to look gray, and if you have a vigorous brain keep it a secret if you want to keep it – and don’t let on that I’m fully alive and lively.

From the “Strrets” of Brooklyn

So, I’m a little on the detail-oriented side. My awareness of typos and their ilk is often useful, but is also a constant aggravation. Even though I agree with some unorthodox spelling and punctuation choices, alarms go off in my head every time I encounter one. When poor spellers and punctuaters have admired the way I’m made, I've always pointed out to them that it’s like having dog-quality hearing, and living in a world saturated in cacophonous dog-whistles.

Last weekend, as I serenely sauntered down the sidewalk on a beautiful day, my nerves were jangled by a flagrant typo on the handwritten chalkboard sign outside a neighborhood bookstore. Given the nature of what they sell, I hoped they’d welcome me if I relieved my pressure by going in to call the error to their attention. While telling the guy behind the counter that it appeared a book title was misspelled on the sign outside, I tried to nullify the potential for insult by saying “the fact that I’m in here telling you this really reflects more poorly on me than it does on the store.” In retrospect, it seems that my self-effacement was unnecessary, because the dude in question began giggling the minute I explained why I was there, and never offered any other acknowledgement. I’ve avoided seeing the sign since then, and I’m going to imagine that it’s been fixed.

On a related note, as I was heading home after spending the night in another neighborhood, I noticed a sign at the Fulton stop on the G train. It informed me that I could go toward “Queens” or to “Smith and 9th Strrets.” How many people approved that sign before it was written in really big letters in the subway? Even the person who glues the big white letters on the big black signs didn’t notice something amiss? After what could be considered a debacle at the bookstore, I don’t hold out much hope for wrangling with the MTA over their signage, but I ought to try to strike a tiny blow for clarity, correctness, for Truth. Maybe I’ll go back there some day and write down the station Superintendent’s name and send a letter. Or maybe I’ll keep telling myself that the sign is quietly trying to persuade us that the “r” sound in “Streets” sounds better rolled, like in Spanish. Maybe the sign is a warrior for phonetic aesthetics.