BACK AT WORK TODAY, post-Labor Day weekend, feeling a deep, sorrowful September of the soul that has to do more with the November-like climes being foisted upon these environs by Ma Nature than by the traditional end of summer demarcation. By my calculation, we have seen about a day and a half worth of sun in the last two weeks. Took advantage of a sunny window yesterday by going to Rockaway Beach where we again threw the 'Bee with impunity, sent the football spiraling tightly back and forth among ourselves like strong-armed Cowboy quarterbacks of yore, and swam & rode the season's waning waves like modern-day scions of Poseidon, while the sun shone warmly on friend and foe alike. Or something like that.
Last worked here last Wednesday, so I was looking at five days off in a row, being Thursday, Friday, Saturday & Sunday, and of course yesterday, Monday, the aforementioned Laborious Day. For those of you with paid holidays, a five-day weekend is something to look forward to, but as a freelancer, I was somewhat bemoaning such a long gap of forced inactivity. But Thursday afternoon around 3:00, I got a call from Kate letting me know that my earthly presence was requested by SC on Friday. So off I went on Friday, down to 131 Varick Street, where I worked a quick four-hour shift from 10 to 2 among my peeps. One of my main contacts is no longer there, seems there was a little personnel shakeup, his place being taken by a very fine-looking young lady, one of more than several lurking about on the premises and checking the brother out. Let's just say there are more than a few visual distractions that make working there so enjoyable. There's a good chance I will be returning there this week as the final page proofs weren't ready for me to go over on Friday afternoon.
Don't really know what's going on at the new Air America. They just moved up the dial, from 1190 to 1600 on the AM dial. Has Mike Malloy been terminated, what about Sam Seder, the dreaded Satellite Sisters? Last Tuesday I heard Malloy filling in for Randy Rhodes on the 3-7 shift, saying he would be back on Wednesday with Gore Vidal, and then he was gone. I've been listening a lot more lately because this promises to be an exciting two months politically with the November Congressional elections coming up and with Republicans poised to steal as many votes as they do and Democrats hoping to regain control of a country absolutely gone off the rails. There's nothing I hate more than young conservatives, nothing so dispiriting as some sheltered person of privilege laying claim to their rightful place in the world order, so smug and uninformed and repressed.
How sweet it was to see the Greek national basketball team knock the U.S. team off in the world semifinals! Before the game, the U.S. players were of course styling and showboating for the crowd, practicing their own idea of fundamentals -- if lobbing the ball off the backboard and throwing down thunder dunks can be considered fundamentals. On the other side of the court, refusing to be intimidated by the presence of the much more famous Americans, the Greek team had the quirky notion of working on such quaint, seemingly outdated phases of the sport as jump shooting and free throws. The 101-95 ass-kicking the Hellenes then perpetrated was a thing of basketball beauty, with the Americans seemingly powerless to adjust to the mighty Hellas squad running the game's most elemental play, the pick & roll, to perfection over and over and over again. The Greek team shot the lights out, hanging a hundred spot on the more celebrated U.S. club, thereby delivering a nightmarish comeuppance to this wannabe Dream Team. As one writer noted, "In the crunch, a collection of NBA stars couldn't handle players whose names they couldn't pronounce and could identify only by number." Let's leave the last word to the corn-rowed, overly tattooed, me-first Carmelo Anthony, who may have inadvertently stumbled on his team's mindset after the game: "It's not like this is the end of the world for us." How about a case of sour grapes to go with that whine, Carmelo? Old Aesop woulda loved it.
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