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Don't Take Your Hand Away, a video project describing the last few days of Terri Schiavo's life.

the art of The Diss

If it was just you and me, and I decided to vent, I'd say something like this (after a bout of sulking followed by you cajoling me to share my troubles): I have experienced more rejection in the past year than ever before.  By any measure, it's been a record season of put-downs for me.  Pick a category: business, love, friendship, smiling at a stranger on the street. Just the other day, even a homeless lady refused to take my money.

I'm not accustomed to rejection.   Perhaps I'm just now starting to get the average lifetime supply, all at once.  There are other plausible explanations, all or part of which might explain this drought of strokes.  But one factor is undeniable: I never really new rejection before I came to New York.

Think about it.  New York is home of The Diss.  Here it is a time honored tradition, a high art, a pastime, a ritual, a social more, and a sought after business skill.  It may even be a survival skill or a time-saving device (imagine stopping to say something nice to everyone you pass on the street!).  It was demonstrated most eloquently for a watching world by none other than New York's own Donald Trump.  Just by speaking the words "You're fired!" he immortalized, lionized, and enshrined them, introducing his audience to what I call The Art of the Diss.

Mick Jagger said, "livin' in this town, you must be tough tough tough tough tough tough TOUGH!"   Seems to have hit the bullseye on that score.  Note, then, that The Diss is no respecter of persons.  In fact, thrill of The Diss seems to be proportional to the stature -- social or monetary -- of the person dissed.  There is no coup in dissing the fellow who cleans the lavatories in your building, unless he carries on like he's John J. Crapper himself.

This brings me to another subtle characteristic of The Diss.  I have observed that those whose conduct belies a very special view of themselves vis-a-vis mankind in general are not only capable practitioners of The Diss, but often its most sought-after targets. It's as if there really is a law ensuring that you get what you give; sort of "live by The Diss/die by The Diss."  This is evidence that there is indeed Justice. Evidence that apparently convicts me, since I've been the recipient of so much Dissing.  But I digress.

The Diss is really just another form of The Bluff. It's social Darwinism in all it's fatalistic, destructive glory: "If survival belongs to the fittest, then I'd better act like I am."  The put-down is designed to bolster the self image of the putter-downer.

Given this, then, The Diss might be easier to take next time.   Because if people could be seen according to their actual stature, the big Disser would be the "98 pound weakling" of the crowd; the man behind the curtain, the emperor in his New Clothes, etc.

Don't be put off by this. New Yorkers want to accept you.  But first they have to put you down. In a big way.

trading places

It has been too long since I posted here, but I have been that busy. I guess since I spend a quarter of my life on the train from which this literary masterpeice derives its name, I tend to either a) take it for granted or b) block it out. But it's time to start satiating the thirst of my readers, so I'll ease back into it.

The big adventure this week, on the train at least, had to be the Chinese lady who sat with me on Friday night. She reluctantly dropped herself into aisle seat next to me and began to nod off. It was not long before the air immediately surrounding us began to smell like fermenting organic material. I began to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

It was at this point, having been brought to memory by that very smell of another evening on the train, that I began to be a little less judgmental of her. My thoughts turned instead to that January evening when I attended a certain party at Cipriani 42nd Street. Oh, did I fail to post about that here? Perhaps it was because I resembled Dan Akroyd in Trading Places, during the "drunk wanderings" scene, minus the gun and the Santa Claus suit, of course. But more on this some other time.

At intervals she would bounce off my shoulder, oblivious to that fact. Then she would lean forward and put her head on the seat in front, almost as though nausea were beginning to evidence itself. I began to formulate plans of escape from my window seat.

It was a very long ride; the first one I can remember that I just wished would be over. My knee hurt and would not be made comfortable. It had been a long, trying week. And I was trapped in that seat having to keep my eye trained on that woman for signs of untoward behavior.

We cluh-clunked into the terminal (on the very bumpy set of tracks). I studied my seat-mate for signs of consciousness, but waited until the conductor announced our arrival before attempting, by administering a series of gentle taps (almost pokes) to her left shoulder, to awaken her in order that I might be able to get my gear and go home.

But she was having none of it, and I was forced to resort to a climb over the back of the seat (after waiting for its occupants to "debark") . I hooked my ankle in the strap of the bag I had placed back there before climbing over, and managed to give my knee just enough of a twist to make me wince. By the time I was standing in the aisle, she was awake and bouncing off the seats on her way out.

She actually got into the terminal some time before I did. I saw her leaving the ladies room...