Nil by Mouth

Dock Ellis: An LSD No No Gets an Update

The original radio documentary, or DOCKumentary that Donnell Alexander and I produced in the Spring of 2008 got a major update and major major exposure with No Mas’ James Blagden and Christopher Isenberg’s awesome animation.

It made it to Time.com, Huff Pos, Yahoo! Sports Gawker and who knows where else. Someone said it was the #2 viral video this week, how ever you count such things.

Check it

• Nov 19
• 33,475 Comments

What I learned from the 2009 US Open

These are the lessons I learned from this year’s US Open, in no particular order:

I’m not sure who, is it IBM, the USTA, CBS?, but someone has made a concerted effort to de-lesbianize Mary Carillo.

Before:

After:

WTF? Why so many blonds this year? Was there some Flushing Meadows mandate that those with vaginas must, at the very least, carry a Clairol Frost and Tip kit?

2. Male commentators make the most idiotic proclamations when faced with zany events like motherhood:

Like…

“There’s nothing harder than coming back from having a baby,” in relation to Kim Clijsters wild card run to the finals. Really? Are you retarded? How about coming back from being stabbed in the shoulder by a crazed lunatic on the court in the middle of a game? [see Seles, Monica]. How about coming back after your father and coach basically beat you up after losing matches and you had to get a restraining order? [see Pierce, Mary].

Besides the extremes, what about a torn hamstring, a blown rotator cuff, chronic tendinitis in the wrist. A woman’s body is actually supposed to have kids, to reproduce. Hell, men are made for it too. Versus activities, like say, running around trying to hit a fuzzy 2 1/2 inch ball with a round mallet made of strings while 23,000 people watch.

Next up, “I don’t think we’ll ever see this again,” said by some other brain-dead commentator about Clijster’s post-preggers comeback. Huh? I guess with all this fitness and nutrition nonsense, and science and medicine coming up with more and better ways to improve every muscle in the human body, it’s just going to get harder for poor fat mothers disabled for life by the freakish act of pregnancy to play the game of tennis.

And finally, I learned from Serena Williams’ weak and unsportsmanlike meltdown on Saturday that the women’s game really must be played to five sets. Actually, I’ve been pretty obsessed with that for at least a decade, but Serena’s freak out kind of drove it home. With or without the foot fault, the bad call, or the defaulted point, Serena was gonna lose. Kim had outplayed her. So far.

But so far is soooo small in the women’s game. In a men’s match, 6-4 in the first, 2nd set 6-5 would be just getting your opponent on the ropes. The possibilities of finish are still open. I don’t know if the two out of three set standard is from the sexist past, or because the men’s serve and volley points used to be shorter or what. But these days, it’s just not an accurate measure of which player is better.

And what of Serena’s death-by-Wilson-enema threat? Donnell and I have been going back and forth about this all afternoon. Here’s my take: It was really, rilly uncool. Made her look weak, out of control and unprofessional. But let’s step back. Serena didn’t punch the ref in the face. She hasn’t been juicing for 10 years or systematically torturing dogs, et-cetera et-cetera. She got really pissed about a call, at the moment she was about to lose. She’s got too much experience and too many wins to be that outta control. It was tres uncool. Perhaps even loser-ish.

But in my mind, she was about to lose a game with barely enough time to play it. If it were three of five she wouldn’t have pulled that shit (umm… until maybe later). Unsportsmanlike. Not befitting a champion. Uncool. Really uncool. But more than that? Nah.

• Sep 13
• 91,973 Comments

Youth is Pain

I saw two excellent HBO documentaries this Labor Day weekend, seemingly unrelated. On Sunday, Youth Knows No Pain and then The Last Truck: The Closing of a GM Plant on Monday.

The former is an exploration of the US’s cult of youth by way of Restalyn, Botox, eye lifts and a zillion other quasi-medical treatments to not look one’s age. It’s a pretty brilliant title. First off, all of these treatments are painful, how expensive they are is the least of which. But the result, to look younger, should take some of the pain of life — of being old — away, right? One of the youth-obsessed women quotes Nora Ephron: if I knew what I know now, I would have wore a bikini every day of my 26th year. Ha! Yes, I hear that sister.

The sage quoting Ephron here is Julia Allison who, when she was 26, read that and built a philosophy around it, Botoxing regularly among other age-defying procedures. She’s hot, true as blue. But as we see Julia’s derm stick needles in her face it’s clear that she’s a pathetic hot girl, obsessed with her looks, shallow, self-absorbed and myopic. She can barely look up from herself long enough to faintly disdain her best friend in the doctor’s office.

It’s true, youth is wasted on the young. But of all the things that youth wastes on the young, looks hardly make my top 10. Knowing what I know now I would have worked harder, been more honest with myself, respected myself more, demanded more from my friends, my lovers, demanded more from myself. Maybe I would have worn more bikinis too. No, actually Nora, I wore just the right amount of bikinis.

And then tonight, the doc about the GM plant. It’s winter in Dayton and the workers are red-faced, clad in down and work boots and unflattering jeans. Most of them cry on camera on the final day in the life of their plant. They take group photos with the last car on the line. The women don’t wear make up as they heave tools into their trucks. The men use the word love over and over. Dammit they’re OLD.

Maybe it’s because the subjects are filmed so lovingly here, they all are so fucking beautiful. And not beautiful in some nobility-of-the-proletariat way, though there’s that too. But they’re hot, sexy, vibrant. They work hard and have an emotional connection to their people, their lives. And clearly they have better sex than Julia Allison.

• Sep 8
• 21,279 Comments

Easy Does It

I remember the first time I heard rap music, I mean really heard it. It must have been ‘88 or ‘89 and I was in a van on the way to way to the Davis Cup tennis tournament in San Diego. My tennis coach Hans, whom I idolized in a way that only a sweaty pre-pubescent girl with a tennis racquet and outsize dreams of Wimbeldon could, had organized a rouge trip of his favorite students to see the matches. By organized I mean rented a van and a room in a cheap motel. We were all privileged white kids, except Hans who was Jamaican and only talked to me about his real life at least seven years later when I was about to graduate from Beverly Hills High School and had been babysitting his son by an estranged baby mama for awhile. It was all very complicated.

In any case, the sheer madness of the venture (rented van, 6 kids in a roadside motel, one adult who never acted like an adult and no rules) was intoxicating. I was the youngest kid on the trip I think, in 6th or 7th grade. One of the high schoolers, a freshman named Rich — I can totally see him now — announced that there was only one thing we could listen to on this drive. He popped in his “Eazy-Duz-It” tape. It was a revelation, but an unholy one. I was just discovering liberalism and feminism and the plight of oppressed peoples. Eazy E was like a punch in the gut to all that. The brazen sexist lyrics, the violence, the ghetto oppression and the hypnotic beats. It was, like, way too much to process. I hated it immediately.

Rich and I argued for the first hour of the drive and proceeded to loathe one another intensely for the next three days, a nonstop battle including yelling, teenage taunts, slammed doors and a refusal of shared french fries that would test Hans’ patience and every other kids’ loyalty. Everyone took sides (mostly Rich’s). Of course, the only person I remember from that trip was Rich. And Eazy.

I’m thinking of all this now because my fiance is in the midst of a writing a book about The Last Album that Changed the World. If you haven’t guessed it yet, that album is Dr. Dre’s, The Chronic.

While I’m not actually writing the book, his constant talk, the documentaries endlessly playing on our TV, all those books strewn about the house and the CDs slipped into my car stereo has brought me back to those years, 1992 and before.

From the moment of the Davis Cup trip on, as I suspect it was for a lot of white kids coming of age in the time of gansta rap, internal cultural conflict was the name of the game. The best coolest music came from a place so close but so far away. Yet later, when I listened to Nuthin’ but a G Thang in my room, Dre spoke directly to me, no mistaking it. I wore out my copy of “Lethal Injection,” bitch named Amy not withstanding. And I couldn’t possibly love every track of “Regulate… G Funk Era” any more than I still do. Quite simply, it was an odd time to come of age. If you were between 12 and 25 in the early 1990s, there was just no hiding from race in America.

This weekend, I picked up Other People’s Property off our living room table. It’s one of those books living on the coffee table at the moment, so I started reading it. The book chronicles white America’s love of rap music through the personal lens of the author Jason Tanz. Donnell reviewed it for the SF Chronicle a couple years ago. The author is a white lover of hip hop music about my age, and though I’m only at chapter 2 right now, there’s a lot about all those conflicting feelings that I used to have. Conflicting feelings that in the end, I think have made me have a more honest and deep dialogue about race in America with my friends and with myself. Maybe some of that paved the way for an Obama presidency and more forward thinking about race in general in this country. It’s a long leap, but maybe not. A lot has been said about the lyrics of those early songs back in the day (see the PMRC, Bill Clinton and Sistah Souljah). But a lot about what the current crop of 30 somethings, black and white, faced about race in their youth hasn’t. Maybe it’s not much of a leap. Me, I don’t really hate “Eazy-Duz-It” anymore, but it sure makes me fucking uncomfortable.

• Jul 12
• 19,912 Comments

For A Long Time I Used To Write A Blog

It’s official. The blog/journal/etc is going on sabbatical. Possibly, likely, it will turn into early retirement. I just haven’t had it in me to do much here anymore. It’s easy to to blame it on the recently acquired fulltime writing gig, but really I haven’t been that involved in it for awhile now.

I’m keeping the archives up. And the whole thing will stay in tact since I don’t have the heart to redesign it as a closed book or whatever. It’s, like, embalmed. For her pleasure.

Meanwhile, the new home page. Meanwhile I’ll be writing here. Meanwhile I’ll be accepting freelance writing and web work. Meanwhile the nyc summer marches on. Meanwhile I’ll be cleaning my kitchen.

• Aug 8
• Comments Off

The Scoop

Well folks – things are gonna change around here. In a big way. Now when I say “around here” I mean, around my life. I’ve been offered a full-time reporting gig with the Queens Chronicle. I haven’t officially worked out the details yet. The details being quitting my new freelance gig with the fancy schmancy agency, getting the cheapest car ever, and saying yes. But I’m pretty much a zillion percent sure i’m gonna take it. The salary is 24K a year, the lowest I’ve ever been paid in New York City. And obviously this ain’t much to live on anywhere in the USA, but in NYC I’m pretty much joining the ranks of the working poor. In this way I suppose I won’t be a patronizing liberal when I vote for the Kerry/Edwards ticket and hope to god they raise the income on food stamp eligibility.

What this means for the website I’m not sure. I may be writing so much (since it will be my job – WOOHOO) that I won’t have anything left for Nil By Mouth, or maybe I’ll write tons here since I’ll be in the grove. Who’s to say, really. What is for sure is that the party’s over. Tonight I had a sushi dinner which will likely be my last for quite awhile. There will be no more expensive shoes, or shoes of any kind. My pick-me-ups at the Apple store are absolutely finito. And I will not turn on the AC which i finally installed, ever.

I will brew my own coffee, and never buy it on the street. I will not get jolly ranchers and/or a Ritter Sport when I’m a foul mood. I will think of things I can sell on eBay. I will take on any and all freelance web work you might have in the evenings. I might babysit for extra cash. If I ever decide to go out to eat because my friends make me I will order an appetizer and drink tap water. I will go to the library, and not Barnes & Noble for reading materials. I may cancel my land line. I will take good care of all the things I currently own, because I will not buy new things to replace them. I will diligently look for a real boyfriend so he can move in and split the rent and utilities. And I will never ever take a cab again.

So that’s the story. I’m alternately thrilled and terrified. But here’s to suffering for our dreams. Yes?

• Jul 7
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Mix Up at the Coffee Cart

Yesterday I wore my first ant-war T-shirt of the season. It’s a drawing of soldier smoking a cigarette with some lyrics from Outkast’s “Bombs Over Baghdad” in graffiti next to him. Then there’s a red circle with “War/Peace” knocked out in white. The most obvious thing is that red decal and the words “Baghdad”. Now I can’t explain exactly how this t-shirt is anti-war or how that Outkast song is anti-war, but I’m almost a thousand percent sure that it is.

Outside the new office I ordered my small black coffee no sugar, one glazed donut from my usual coffee cart guy. It’s only been about three weeks, but the coffee cart guy and I are pals. You all know how it is. The coffee cart relationship is a treasured and delicate one. He knows what you want. Sometimes he jokes around. You nod in a daze cuz it’s early and you’d rather be in bed. It’s like the last stop of freedom before the claws of office work.

I remember one really great coffee cart guy who one day told me he was moving 5 blocks away. I was sad. Five blocks out of the way is too far for a coffee cart. We both knew that, and wished each other the best. Maybe we’d meet again, but most likely not. I have a friend who told a sad story about a souped up coffee cart that sat outside his office on blocks for a whole year, until one day without warning it was gone. There was just a pale rectangle where morning comfort used to be.

So I was wearing my anti-war-but-I’m-not-sure-how t-shirt. And my coffee cart guy peered over the little counter, “Does it say Baghdad on your shirt.”

“Yeah,” I replied. I pulled open my sweatshirt so he could see better.

“Bombs over Baghdad,” he read slowly. “Oh, that makes me sad.”

I asked him if he was from Baghdad. He said no, that he was from Afghanistan, but that even so my t-shirt made him sad. He used that word twice, sad. I felt terrible immediately. I tried to explain that it wasn’t like that. It was from the Outkast song. Did he know Outkast? No, he didn’t. Had he heard the song? No he hadn’t.

“Bombs, it’s just sad,” he said again. “It is,” I agreed. I didn’t know how to explain.

I’m pretty sure I totally offended him. Sometimes he gives me 2 donuts for no reason (not exactly that great considering all the teeny clothes I want to wear this summer, but it’s the thought). In fact I’d be psyched if he started selling yogurt, but whatever. He always ends with the same dumb joke, “Have fun at the beach!” But I like it. It’s sweet. And now I’ve totally offended him. Thinking about it later he must have thought I was one of those people with a flag sticker on my door and Osama toilet paper or something. [Sigh].

Today I had a t-shirt with a cat on it, and things seemed fine. Though I thought I could detect a note of antipathy in his beach joke today. If he only knew I’m so not like that. I need to get a no nonsense literal ant-war t-shirt. Someone here suggested Hanes and a sharpie. Maybe.

• Jun 25
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