Not Chopped Liver, Chopped Liver WITH Onion

Yeah, I could see the Manhattan Bridge getting into a big sulk over being sidelined by just about everyone. "It's always Brooklyn Bridge this, Brooklyn Bridge that. What am I, chopped liver?"

Well, Manhattan bridge, take heart; I think you're awesome. You are my Cinderella - the beauty no one takes notice of until the fairy godmother brings along a pumpkin and next thing you know a prince is searching for you high and low, armed with a glass slipper. Does that make me a fairy godmother? Who would be the prince? Is this all a very bad analogy? Am I losing my train of thought?



Let me get back to it. There are three bridges that run between Manhattan and Brooklyn - Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg - but all you ever hear about or see in the movies is the Brooklyn Bridge. You would think that's all there is. Well, I'm here to tell you, there's another way, maybe even a better way (sorry Williamsburg, I can only godmother one at at time). How do I love thee, Manhattan Bridge? Let me count the ways.



Nine times out of ten, maybe even 9.9 times, I get lost trying to get onto the Brooklyn Bridge. One moment you are following signs and the next you are driving under the bridge, towards the East River, on a one-way street, with no clue how to get anywhere. And, once I get over it, I have no idea where I am. Cab drivers probably pay their rent with the extra money that they make through people lost around the Brooklyn Bridge. Manhattan Bridge? Well that is straight off Canal Street, in Manhattan, a hugely popular street and the soul of Chinatown. And it leaves you right on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, which is straight into downtown. I mean there is no getting lost there. No siree Bob!

Also, let's not forget, the Manhattan Bridge has it all - lanes for cars, subway tracks (for trains taking me straight to work for the last 6 years and counting), and a bikeway. Now that I have a bike and I actually had to ride it from Manhattan to Brooklyn, I have used all three services. The Brooklyn Bridge doesn't do subway, so there.

Still not good enough for ya? Well, just look at it. It's not a bad-looking bridge. And it has decent views. From the Manhattan Bridge, as you ride the subway, you look one way and see the Williamsburg Bridge, and then you look the other way and see the iconic Brooklyn Bridge AND the Statue of Liberty. Now, tell me how you are going to see the Brooklyn Bridge, while on the Brooklyn Bridge? Haha! Got you!

So there you go, Manhattan Bridge, Ugly Duckling no more. You may not be the oldest suspension bridge or the longest of the first steel wire suspension. But you keep me from wandering back streets for hours, unable to get home or to where I was going in the first place. You may not be in the photos on the walls of every place advertising Brooklyn, but you give me a view to enjoy on my way to work, while others have only the dark passages of the underground tunnels to see on their morning commute. You may not be getting respect, but I'm here with a horse-drawn carriage and stunning dress. Tonight, you are going to the ball!

Be home by midnight!

Self-Flagellation

Where have I been, you may wonder? I have been sitting around trying to figure out how to make things right. How could I have done such terrible wrong? I tried to tell myself that I had no idea but, apparently, ignorance is no defence. So I am having to face up to what I have done and try to fix things. Maybe you can help.

So about a week and a half ago, I was reading USAToday and the lead story had this headline "Older White Males Hurt More by this Recession". My first thought is - what a poor headline; that's almost an essay. My second thought was well, this is the top story, let me check it out. And thank goodness I did. I may have carried on in life, clueless about my evil deeds. You, on the other hand might be thinking, well Pandave, you are not an older white male so what is your deal. Well, you keep reading, because I am going to tell you how this all comes together and lands on my doorstep.

The story starts with heartbreaking mini-stories about three men from Columbus, Ohio, who, after working all their lives find themselves, in their 50s and looking for work. These are men who have worked hard, served the community and done nice things for strangers and now they are sitting around wondering what is wrong with them. Life just came up and punched them in the gut. Unemployment for this demographic is at a record high level of 6.5%

And me and my demographic? What do we have to say for ourselves? Well yeah, yeah older black men's jobless rate is 10.5% but it peaked in 1983 at over 11.5%. And black women? 12.2%, is what it is. The untrained eye may look and say, well that's almost twice the rate for older white men but that's because you don't realise that it once was 20%.

And to put it all in a nutshell, let me quote USAToday:
"In other words, this recession has shrunk the racial gap in unempolyment, largely because white men are doing so much worse than usual."
And I ask you, is that right? Is that fair? How can one group do better at the expense of another. Granted, the group doing better is still having a rather sucky time but, it should be accustomed to the bad times and not wish to take the good times away from others. We won't talk payrate discrepancies - those are distractions. What matters is that a bunch of folk are getting a little closer to the rest and that is just not right.

I for one feel just awful. I feel as though I should start calling people up, apologising and maybe offering them my job. You know, to get things back to normal again.

It Only Takes A Spark

So, this is what happened to me today. I got up and my body ached and so I thought - ten more minutes. It felt like all I did was blink but then it was helluva long blink because, the next time I opened my eyes, it was half an hour later. I dragged myself out into the unreal humidity that is a New York phenomenon. Damp and weighed down by the grey skies, I finally parked myself at my desk at work and decided to visit my blog friends to help lift my spirits. My fellow bloggers never cease to amaze, inspire, motivate and fascinate me. And, when the endless rain has soaked my spirit into submission, this is what I need in order to get me going.

I headed over to Oscar's site, where only yesterday he and El Editor had me smiling and bopping at my desk and saw that he had encouraged me to read the lyrics of the wonderful song Marcianita (My Little Martian Girl). I am being very generous when I say that my Spanish language skills are limited, and Oscar suggested I use a translator and so I did. I realised that, in my office, I have coworkers from Puerto Rico, Costa Rica, Peru and that's just on my side of the room. So I asked the lady from Costa Rica if she had a little time for me and a little song. She took the song and enlisted the assistance of yet another coworker and, in no time presented me with translated lyrics. She took the time to type them up! I was touched and impressed.

Well, after all that, I felt I owed her an explanation and so I did, from the beginning, together with illustrations, provided by me clicking on Oscar's site. "Oh, that's really cool," she said and the proceeded to translate the comment "eso de una sola teta....pobre flaco!" that was also left on the site. Then she told me that, before she had kids, she used to love to draw a lot. Having grown up in Orlando, right near Disney, she loved to draw cartoon characters. Those who know me know I can barely draw a line and so I was excited - you draw? Then you must draw.

And draw she did - behold, people, and animaniac! And suddenly my sticky, grey day had meaning. For had I not sought inspiration, would I have ended up here, as happy as Dot, up there? Thanks Oscar!

Fait Accompli!

It has been a while since I embarked on my mission to become an eco-terrorist. A jigsaw puzzle with wildflower seeds embedded in the pieces? What a genius idea! Fuzzy pieces that are so difficult for my eyse to make out? Not so good. I stopped and started; I almost gave up. I rolled up the puzzle and put it away and focused on tryign to make the most of the rare sunny days we have had this summer. But the puzzle drew me, like a magnet. It taunted me - 500 pieces, Pandave. Are you going to be conquered by 500 pieces? There were days when the answer was a resounding - yeah, I just might be. Last week, this is where things stood:

Sunday was a rainy day and my brain was fried from three intense weeks of classes. The yellow puzzle pad sat on my table, taunting me. And I am a sucker for a taunt - challenge me? You want to challenge me? Well... You're on! I positioned the lamp to shine down on the pieces, I pulled the table close to me and got busy. You see the bags under my eyes? The tired and puffy face at work this morning? The less than four hours of sleep I got on Sunday night? Well, HELLO PANDA!!



I am sad about taking this apart but you know what would make it better? Finding people all over who will take in the pieces and spread the wildflowers around the world. Eco-terrorism... Who is with me?