Worst. Subway station. Evar.

It’s the 14th Street station on the F line. It’s gross and rat-infested even at the best of times, but tonight, coming home from the darkroom, I saw 1) a man exposing himself on the far north end of the platform, and 2) three rats cavorting not on the tracks but on the platform. Unacceptable.

In other news, this is why I still use film:

Ocean Parkway

In the summer I moved out of Ditmas Park to Ocean Parkway. It’s only about a ten minute walk from my old place, but it’s not Ditmas; people consider it Kensington, but that’s not terribly descriptive, because Kensington is a huge area. I tell people “Ocean Parkway,” because that’s more descriptive and if someone’s been down to Coney Island in a car they know what Ocean Parkway looks like (designed by Olmstead, it’s an official city landmark; it’s a wide street with bike paths and stone tables for chess, as well as beautiful old trees).

The most striking thing about the neighborhood is the ethnic mix. It’s a very Hasidic neighborhood. I live right next to a hundred-year-old synagogue, which I can see from my bedroom window. On Friday nights you see a lot of men walking around with the huge furry hats (like this). During Sukkoth I noticed a fair bit of merry-making in the ‘hood, and not knowing anything about the holiday (other than that the two major camera stores in the city shut down for ten days) I went to Wikipedia, where I read that

The word Sukkot is the plural of the Hebrew word sukkah, meaning booth or hut. The sukkah is reminiscent of the type of huts in which the ancient Israelites dwelt during their 40 years of wandering in the desert after the Exodus from Egypt. During this holiday, Jews construct and reside in sukkot small and large. Here families eat their meals, entertain guests, relax, and even sleep.

And then I was like, so that’s what all that hammering out back was about.

The neighborhood is also heavily Russian. In fact, I’m one of a mere handful of people in my building who are not Russian. There’s this little old lady who’s all of about four feet tall who lives on the fifth floor. I’ve ridden the elevator with her a few times and she really reminds me of Baka Katica, the grandmother of a Croatian cousin of mine: she doesn’t speak a word of English and even though she knows I don’t understand her language, she talks my ear off. One day we even managed to communicate. She asked me which floor, and I said, “šest.” (Six.) Then she said, “muž?” (Husband.) “Ne,” I replied.

“Studentija?” (I can’t write in Russian so I’m spelling these words in Croatian.)

“Ne.”

“Rubotnik?” (Or something similar; I recognized the “robo” part as meaning “worker.”)

“Da.”

[Look of surprise.]

There’s a really interesting little green grocer’s a couple blocks away which is where I buy all my produce. It’s one of the cheapest places to buy fruits and vegetables in the entire city, quite possibly. On the outside of the store it says, in Cyrillic, “Russian Store” (“Russki Magazin”). When you get inside there are these weird products, like 30 different varieties of honey from pretty interesting places: Lithuania, Greece, Moldova, and Bashkortostan, which I had never heard of before. The preponderance of goods are Turkish, but there’s a lot of stuff with Hebrew writing, as well as “Golan” brand pasta. At the cash register there’s a little donation box with Hebrew writing.

I can’t figure out where the two young women who operate the cash register are from. Today as they were talking to each other they were speaking a language that I couldn’t identify that had a lot of “kh”s in it. Like, in every word. It could have been Hebrew, for all I know. Then a man popped in, and one of the girls said, “Salam aleikum” to him, then followed it with “nasılsınız?” which is Turkish for “how are you?”

Across the street is a very similar grocery. One day when I went in, an east Asian woman was working the cash. Then as she was ringing up my purchases she started talking to her boss in Russian.

Governor-General

In this thread, I asked why the Canadian Governor-General, Michaëlle Jean, decided to grant Stephen Harper’s egregious request for the prorogation of parliament. I mean, she could have said no.

Spaz responded to my question, saying:

As for why, maybe she felt that given the economic situation that a newly elected government who faught [sic] an election in which the voters knew the economic climate, should at least be allowed to table a budget. And if it falls then, then it falls. Maybe we’ll find out in her memoirs one day.

But…the other day I was explaining the whole Governor-General thing to a co-worker and told her about how the GG has the power to veto legislation but never uses it. I’m now wondering whether the prorogation deal is a similar sort of phenomenon, that is to say, the GG could deny a Prime Minister’s request, but dare not deny it, lest she seem to be overriding the will of the people as expressed in the actions of the PM.

The Drugstore Where Time Stands Still

Over two years ago I made a visit to Hamilton, Ontario, my hometown, and one of things I did while I was there was walk down Barton St., a street that I remember as vibrant from my childhood but that is now all boarded-up stores. This is one of the photos I took that day:

I titled it “Voo” because that’s all I could make out from the sign. But as I discovered the other day when a friend sent me a link to a video on the Hamilton Spectator‘s Web site, it was actually a pharmacy called Littlewood’s, and though it’s been closed for almost fifty years the contents are untouched. Paul Wilson from the paper takes a walk around inside, and the result is fascinating. I totally recommend that you watch the footage:

http://www.thespec.com/videogallery/476949

I so wish I could have gone inside.

Larry Schmummers

From this article in the NYT on Larry Summers:

For someone said to be poor at reading others, Mr. Summers has often displayed keen political instincts; after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks, he had urged Harvard students to support the government and spoke out in support of its embattled R.O.T.C. chapter. Now, struck by the harsh consequences of globalization and income stagnation even among college graduates, Mr. Summers, known as a centrist as Treasury secretary, moved left, and in a very public forum.

Uh, that’s not “keen political instincts.” I believe that’s what we call “jumping on the bandwagon.”