A Pervert on the 7

Apparently, over the weekend, some pervert exposed himself to a woman on the 7 train. This happens from time to time. There are millions of men living in NYC. A few are bound to be perverts. And ride the subway. And root for the Yankees.

That's right: the flasher was wearing a Yankees jersey, and the woman he flashed got a picture of him on her camera phone.

If it's 4:30am and the pervert's riding the 7 train, the pervert very likely lives in Queens on the subway line that goes to Shea Stadium, which, as we all know, is where the Mets play.

What the hell was that pervert doing in a Yankees' jersey? Fuck you, pervert.

Tennis Time

Yes, dear B&E readers, Queens says hello to the world's finest tennis players. In the words of Martin Luther, "What does this mean?"

It means the transformation of our local number 7 train. That's right. It's the Ugly Train (if you're a local), the International Express (if you admire multiculturalism from the outside), the Green-Haired Faggots Who Can't Speak a Word of English (if you're John Rocker).

But if yesterday's first day of the US Open is any indication, it means that the 7 train is 60% more attractive, 180% less international, 90% less green-haired, 10% more faggy, and 230% more English-speaking.

Thankfully, our 7 train is overrun by white preppies for just a few short weeks every year.

Naturally, though, the missus and I likes us some tennis. We're hoping to see the Great Scottish Hope, Andy Murray, win the sucker.

Ian McEwan, Good With the Words

I've been reading fiction again. In recent months, it had been a struggle. Hell, I've always been a bit of a reluctant reader. As a kid, I much preferred playing outside. I couldn't keep my eyes on a page if my life depended on it. I couldn't take in the information. I'd flip pages and have no idea what I'd been reading.

It wasn't until college that I managed to begin really enjoying reading. Sometimes I would read standing up in my dorm room to keep from dozing off. Still, I was able to read books. Real books. It was a revelation to be riveted by 850 pages of Anna Karenina. I didn't think it was possible.

Still, reading's never been easy for me. Since college, just for the sake of continuing to read, I've been much more likely to pick up a "good read," rather than a "good book."

Which leads me to my point. I'm six years late, but I finally read Atonement by Ian McEwan. I bought the damned hardback when it came out in 2001, and except for my two attempts at reading it, it's been doomed to live a life on my bookshelf.

Meanwhile all my smart friends and the smart missus have told me how great this book is. E'en so, in my previous two attempts, I never made it past page thirty.

For some reason, on the third attempt, I was riveted from page one. It finally hooked me in a way it hadn't hooked me before.

And yes, it's fucking good. Read it.

I've read other McEwan books, and they've all been great. (A couple were more like "good reads," I admit. I'm thinking of you, The Innocent.) Atonement is my favorite.

McEwan not only has a deep understanding of human emotion but he's also able to express said understanding. Let's face facts: this is why he's a writer. Or rather, this is why he's a great writer.

Some of you may have heard of September 11th (sometimes known as "9/11" or "Giuliani's Political Ambition Realized"). It was a day that happened in 2001. Look it up.

I was here in NYC, and I heard the boom of the (second) plane, I saw the burning towers, and I saw some jumpers, and for quite some time after, I couldn't make any goddamn sense of what had happened. Who could?

Actually, Ian McEwan could.

To this day, it amazes me that the Guardian published Ian's essay on September 15th. So he wrote it on the 14th or earlier? Holy crap. If you're ready to journey back at all, read the man's essay, but I offer this tidbit to you, as it was this line that brought me to tears at the time:

There was really only one thing for her to say, those three words that all the terrible art, the worst pop songs and movies, the most seductive lies, can somehow never cheapen. I love you.

I was brought back to this line again while reading Atonement. It turns out that Ian borrowed it from himself for the essay. In the book, he uses the sentiment for a much smaller moment in the context of the world, but no less earth-shattering for his characters.

A film adaptation of Atonement comes out this fall. I implore you all to read the book first. Ian McEwan's writing makes us better people.

Ah, to Have Roger Cedeno Out of my Life

It's always bothered me (a lot) that Roger Cedeno held the Mets record for most stolen bases in a season. This is a guy for whom sportswriters created a shortcut key in order to type more efficiently, "Cedeno misplayed a fly ball, resulting in a triple."

Well, Jose Reyes finally swiped enough bases to get Roger out of the Mets' record books. And I couldn't be more pleased about it. Even though the Mets can't seem to beat the Padres.

Ladies (and gay men), enjoy this hunky photo of Professoro Reyes, who first will steal the base and then will steal your heart.

As for me, dear B&E readers, I'm heading out to Shea tomorrow night to see if I can keep my winning streak alive and improve to 9-0 this season. Let's go Mets!

They're Out!

I'm admittedly late on both of these items, but I couldn't just let them go either.

First is Karl Rove, of course. He resigned, sure, but until he's in prison (or is otherwise not able to resurface), I see no real reason to celebrate. The Daily Show has some good videos online on the subject, and I suggest you watch them.

The second item is Bobby Cox. In a season with Bonds breaking Aaron's home run record, Glavine winning his 300th, and A-Rod becoming the youngest to hit 500 home runs, Bobby Cox quietly (yet vociferously) broke the record for most ejections in Major League history. He went seven-and-a-half weeks without getting the heave-ho, but he finally did it Tuesday night. It was his 134th ejection, just 28 shy of a full season's worth of ejections.

I feel a little bad making Bobby share this posting with Boba Rove. I like Bobby a lot better. Even though he manages for the most hated Atlanta Braves. But an offensive tomahawk chop is really nothing next to the corruption and hatred fostered by "Bush's Brain."

UPDATE: I didn't know, when I wrote earlier this morning, that Cox was ejected from last night's game as well. The man's on a roll now. Look out!

My Summer Vacation - Part VI - Swedish Women

It's been a long time coming, this posting, and I'm well aware that B&E readers are amongst the most patient readers in the world.

Since returning from Sweden, numerous people have asked, "How beautiful are the women?"

Well, that's a tricky question, and not just because I'm a married man who likes to keep his eyes from wandering. The fact is that New York is about as attractive as a city gets (the #7 train notwithstanding), and comparing to other cities just isn't fair. So yes, the Stockholmers are attractive, but it didn't seem particularly out of the ordinary.

What did seem out of the ordinary was the high rate of pregnancy. I don't know what was going on between seven and nine months ago (besides that long winter perhaps), but there were pregnant women everywhere. Everywhere. It was uncanny.

The rate of pregnancy for women was even higher than the rate of dreadlocks for men. That's high.

Three Baseball Milestones

In the last week, Alex Rodriguez became the youngest player to hit 500 home runs, Tom Glavine won his 300th game, and Barry Bonds broke Hank Aaron's hallowed home run record.

Because A-Rod and Barry are both jerks, I won't say much more about those guys, except to point out that Barry's record-breaking home run ball was caught by a fella from Queens who was wearing a Jose Reyes jersey. Sweet.

But this 300 wins thing is happening less and less it seems. There's even some speculation that Tommy Gun, the 23rd to join the list of pitchers who accomplished the feat, might be the last to do so.

And I tell you what: when I think about what it takes to win 300 games, my mind gets just a tad blown. You have to win 15 games a year across a span 20 years, or 20 games across 15 years, or any number of other equally impressive math equations.

You've gotta stay healthy, you've gotta play for a team (or teams) that give you run support, and you have to be not only good but one of the best for two-plus decades. And when I think about it like that I don't see how anyone has ever done it. I mean, Cy Young won 511 games, but he was playing primarily against wood nymphs, I think.

Way to go, Tommy Gun. I know that at heart you're an Atlanta Braves man, but I'm happy you've been a Met during the waning years of your career. If you could help them win a World Series this year, you could really retire on a high note.

A New York Tornado?

Apparently, a tornado warning has been issued for eastern Brooklyn and southern Queens. Look, National Weather Service, I grew up in Kansas, where tornadoes wipe out entire towns. So you'll forgive me, NY1, if I don't get all scared and panicky. I'm gonna make some coffee.

UPDATE (4:15 P.M.): Apparently a tornado actually touched down in Brooklyn for the first time in 100 years. I'm an asshole. My coffee was good, though.

Keep Your Small Government Off My Family

I just caught about ten minutes of the Republican Primary Iowa Debate, and more than half the candidates said something about strengthening our families. Has the Republican idea of government gotten so small that it can only be effective within the confines of my apartment?

Badass Tattoo Artist - Follow-up

Here's the full New York Times story about Duke's adventure that the City Blog promised yesterday. And yes, I would say that the video embedded in the article is worth the four minutes of your time.

Badass Tattoo Artist

So the missus got a new tattoo by a fella called Duke Riley. The outline was done prior to our trip to Sweden. Here's a picture of the work being done:


When we returned the missus had Duke fill in the outline with some shading (there's apparently still a bit to be done), and here's how it looks today:


I accept that all tattoo artists are badasses, especially in comparison to me, an un-inked, office worker with hardly a callous on his poor writer's hands. But if I thought Duke was a badass before, it was nothing compared to what I thought about his badassedness after what he did today.

Duke is an artist, who pays the bills with his tattooing. For his latest performance/installation, Duke built a replica of a Revolutionary War "submarine" called "The Turtle."


Duke's mission was to get his submarine as close as possible to the Queen Mary 2, a monstrosity of a cruise ship currently docked in Red Hook, Brooklyn. He got pretty close. Here's Duke getting busted and looking quite pleased about it:


I implore you, dear B&E readers, to read the NYTimes city blog about the event. Be sure to watch the photo slide show (from which those last two photos are borrowed), as well.

Nice work, Duke. On the tattoo and on the artistic mayhem.