Ground Zero

Spring Break

2007-03-11T17:49:00.000-04:00

It's Spring Break! According to www.springbreak.com, this grand American tradition of a week's holiday to mark the end of winter is inspired by the Greco-Roman rituals that featured drinking, dancing and diddling. But because I'm in New York and not Malibu, it will probably be about as hedonistic as a Puritan hoedown. But I am determined to visit some good places in New York now that I have all this free time.

This morning didn't start well, though: the clocks went forward four weeks early, as part of an ingenious new American energy-saving policy. I dragged myself out of bed at 9am and went with fellow Brits Archie and Howard to The Parlour, an Irish pub/restaurant that was showing the France-England rugby match. It cost each of us $20 just to get in, which was a bit of a financial setback, but I was confident that seeing a safe French victory would be worth it.

Nearly everyone in the pub was Irish. And not fourth-generation Irish-Americans who occasionally trip over a dog-eared copy of "Ulysses", either: actual, genuine, old Irish folk in green jerseys, knocking back pints of Guinness at ten in the morning. When the English team appeared on television, I heard a charming voice cry, "FOCK THE QUEEN!" One guy was selling green shirts at the back, although god knows how much for.

So over an orange juice, I watched as the French team fumbled, stumbled and hoofed their way to a depressing defeat at the hands of a rather beefy-looking England. I could have found out that result for free if I'd just stayed in bed.

So what have I been doing over the past couple of months? Well, you can read for yourself on www.bronxbeat.org! Oh yes, our student-run community paper is online, and my articles are red-hot journalistic firebombs that expose the truth behind the issues you care about. Didn't you ever wonder what Italian bakeries in the Bronx are doing to cope with the trans fat ban imposed in New York City? Well, it's lucky I wrote about it isn't it? And what about green roofs, I believe you were concerned about the lack of public money for these energy-saving marvels? Read all about it here! And as for the first Chinese restaurant in the Bronx (later changed to "one of the first", because, um, it could be a pack of lies), well, you can read that little gem here.

Other news: I got an internship with Forbes.com! It starts next week. It was one of those interviews that starts well, with you in your crisp smart suit feeling confident and selling yourself impeccably, but then descends into a sweatbox panic mode where your suit becomes more limp and ill-fitting with each passing moment. By the end of it I looked like one of the Three Tenors after an encore. But it seems that I did enough to convince them that I could work on Fifth Avenue, and so hopefully I will have something to strive for outside of the tedious world of schoolwork.

A bientot, mes amis.

White Magicians

2007-01-21T01:11:00.000-05:00

Term has started, and all in all I'm looking forward to the second half of my New York education. I will primarily be reporting from the Bronx, a borough that got its name from a Swedish seaman - Jonas Bronck - who bought a large piece of land there in 1639. My knowledge of 17th-century Swedish hobbies is limited, so I'll just resort to (stereo)type and imagine he entertained a large collection of Scandinavian hotties during his time there. Specifically a smorgasbord of them.

My stories will be published in a bi-weekly school publication, The Bronx Beat, which has a circulation of at least '6,000'. Considering that the population of the Bronx numbers over 1.3 million, it is heartening to know that about 1/2000th of the neighbourhood I am covering will get to read the paper (or use it as a bedsheet). My mother heard from her rich American friends that the Bronx is dangerous, and now warns me every time to go there in large groups. At least if I get decapitated, 1/2000th of the Bronx will shed a tear for me.

Our first staff meeting was held in a community centre in the Bronx, where, true to American style, a 'panel' of working journalists gathered to tell us about the community they knew so well. Except again, true to American style, the only topics covered were the biographies of each panelist and where the best place was to get a cheesecake. New Yorkers love nothing more than to recommend restaurants. The entire panel lit up when our professor asked them for restaurant tips, and the first one to answer regaled us with his tale of a restaurant "with no sign". He told us that the restaurant's owner, Iqbal, makes great Pakistani food "in the back". Hmmm. It could just be...the house of a hospitable immigrant? Anyway, the point of the anecdote was not to recommend the food, it was to recommend a 'restaurant' that nobody knew about because it doesn't even have a sign. The rest of the panel sighed in frustration, as they knew they had been out-Zagated.

One other thing I did recently was go downtown to catch Doug Shaw's band, White Magic, at the Mercury Lounge. Well I say Doug Shaw's band, in fact it's his girlfriend's, Mira Billotte, who sings and plays piano while Doug alternately rattles out guitar chords and bangs on the drums. They have a new album out, Dat Rosa Mel Apibus, which of course I got for free because I'm Doug's childhood friend. Their sound is basically psychedelic indie-folk, with extended jamming and occasional cymbal-crashing. They have some good tunes, but if they just chopped two minutes off each song and wrote some proper lyrics they'd have a hit on their hands (but what do I know?) When I told Doug about the upcoming success of Mika Penniman, he looked crestfallen. He needn't worry, because the New York Times wrote a big fat review of his band's gig! It was a bit snooty, but still, a write-up in the New York Times! Here is the final summation from windbag critic Ben Ratliff: "This was deeply deceptive music, driving toward something not altogether satisfying but still fascinating: a deadpan warmth, a halfhearted bliss." Honestly, you could end every gig review ever with that sentence. Even one about Rotting Christ.

Daily Show on France 24: "24 Hour Haughty People"

2007-01-13T13:29:00.001-05:00

Obama/Osama

2007-01-04T08:30:00.000-05:00

Barack Hussein Obama, Democratic Senator for Illinois and unofficial presidential contender for 2008, has a name that really is the political equivalent of being called Ginger Pubes. It seems that nobody can get his name right without indulging in some puerile innuendo - but it's surely just an innocent mistake?

Ted Kennedy, Democratic Senator for Massachussetts, was obviously still a bit flustered from being on the government's secret "no-fly" list in 2004 when he fluffed Obama's name. Speaking at the National Press Club on the future of the Democratic Party back in January 2005, he said: "Why don't we just ask Osama bin -- Osama Obama -- Obama what -- since he won by such a big amount. Seriously, Senator Obama is really unique and special."

But one man's error is another man's excuse, and right-wing pundit Rush Limbaugh took up the "Osama Obama" refrain throughout 2005, claiming that he was merely mocking Senator Kennedy. On the July 11, 2005 edition of his show, Limbaugh poked fun at Obama using his new 'accidental' moniker:

"Obama Osama Obama was in Florida over the weekend stumping for [Sen.] Bill Nelson [D-FL], and he said Democrats have got trouble. [...] So here's Osama Obama now. One speech at a convention and he's living off it. He's a rookie. He's a rookie senator. [...] Now, if you're wondering why I'm calling him "Obama Osama," Ted Kennedy was at the National Press Club and made a speech and in the question-and-answer session, he got a question about Obama and actually called him, "Osama Obama," what did he call him? "Obama bin Laden" or something. He did correct himself, but it caused us -- we had no choice, folks, we had to do a parody tune out of this.

The parody tune, apparently, is set to the melody of 'La Bamba'.

And now we come to the latest of these blunders - CNN's plastering of the phrase "Where's Obama?" underneath footage of a feature on bin Laden, which was shown during Wolf Blitzer's "The Situation Room." CNN has since apologised, and Obama's press spokesman Tommy Vietor offered a wry acceptance: "Though I'd note that the 's' and 'b' keys aren't all that close to each other, I assume it was just an innocent mistake."

Maybe so, but according to The Age, such errors had been reported on by CNN beforehand: "the graphics department did have prior warning about the potential for confusion from their own station, with CNN running a news story in December on the trouble Obama's name can cause some people."

To be precise, it was Blitzer's own show that indulged in the rib-tickling name confusion last month, according to lefty media watchdog MediaMatters. On December 11, "The Situation Room" correspondent Jeanne Moos underlined the similarity between 'Osama' and 'Obama', adding, "as if that similarity weren't enough, how about sharing the name of a former dictator? You know his middle name, Hussein." During the same show, CNN senior political analyst Jeff Greenfield joked that Senator Obama's "business casual" get-up was reminiscent of Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's "jacket-and-no-tie look."

Greenfield concluded: "Now, it is one thing to have a last name that sounds like Osama and a middle name, Hussein, that is probably less than helpful. But an outfit that reminds people of a charter member of the axis of evil, why, this could leave his presidential hopes hanging by a thread."

Though all of this hoo-ha is not nearly as malicious or calculated as the hype would have us believe, it does veer close to the lazy bungles made by Fox News, such as the false labelling of disgraced GOP Congressman Mark Foley as a "Democrat". Fox has yet to make use of the Obama/Osama trick, preferring instead to just lie point blank, so it's doubtful that this is a proper smear campaign - not yet anyway. No doubt if Obama throws his hat in the presidential ring, the gloves will come off for real.

Happy New Year!

2007-01-02T13:05:00.000-05:00

And finally, Adam from Adam&Joe edits two TV shows...

Update

2006-12-02T02:51:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: Rush Limbaugh has weighed in on the scandal, and even The Guardian has written about it. Damn.

Le Scandale Du Jour

2006-12-01T17:18:00.000-05:00

There is a scandal brewing at the Columbia Journalism School.

Ever since taking the online 'Critical Issues' test on journalistic ethics two weeks ago, students have been hearing rumours that there was widespread cheating. The administration remained tight-lipped until a special meeting of professors and students today, in which the 'Critical Issues' professor Sam Freedman announced that cheaters had inflicted "incalculable damage" on the school and its reputation.

It may seem incredibly ironic that budding reporters attending an Ivy League school would be so stupid as to cheat on an ethics exam, but Vice-Dean David Klatell confirmed that students had contacted him after the test had taken place to complain of cheaters passing around the questions by telephone. He said that no names were given, and also said that he would protect the anonymity of the informant.

Addressing 200 visibly upset students in the lecture hall today, Klatell congratulated whoever came forward anonymously. "You did the right thing," he said.

In a further ironic twist, the school was scooped on its own story yesterday by RadarOnline.com. Today the story made the New York Times and the Daily News, and professors said even CNN was sniffing around.

During a Question & Answer session with members of the faculty, it became clear that the online test was rife with problems other than cheating. Dean of Students Sree Sreenivasan said that despite the 90-minute time limit, many students had sent back their tests after going "hours" over the limit. He also said that one student had completed his test in two minutes, while another had finished in 30 minutes.

Sreenivasan faced down a barrage of questions from incensed students, who wanted to know why there had not been an investigation. He explained that with all these technical problems and bizarre completion times, it was nearly impossible to begin singling out students as potential cheaters. "Where's the cut-off point?" he asked. He said students had come forward citing technical problems, while others had admitted to going over the time limit. "That's not technically cheating," said Sreenivasan.

The students complained of their degrees now being devalued, and many questioned the faculty's use of anonymous tips, especially after Professor Freedman had attacked the use of anonymous sources so forcefully throughout the 'Critical Issues' course. Ayub Nuri, a 27-year-old reporter from Iraq, got up to tell students that "it is not the end of the world," but most seemed to disagree.

One enterprising student decided to sneak off with a New York Times reporter to give an interview, only minutes after having declared his degree as now worthless.

This is the first time an online exam has been used to grade 'Critical Issues.' Students were given a 24-hour period in which to take the 90-minute test, and were trusted on the honor system not to communicate with one another.

What I Did Yesterday

2006-11-08T13:36:00.000-05:00

MENENDEZ EXPECTED TO BEST KEAN IN SENATE RACE

By Candace Taylor, Jennifer Taylor, Magdalene Perez, Lionel Laurent and Melissa Korn

New Jersey—Democratic incumbent U.S. Sen. Robert Menendez edged past GOP challenger Thomas H. Kean, Jr. to become New Jersey’s first elected Hispanic senator, in a contentious race that may help tip the balance of power for Democrats in Congress.

With 96 percent of the polls reporting, Menendez had garnered 53 percent of the vote, with Kean, a state senator from Union City, drawing 45 percent.

At his victory party at the Hilton Hotel in East Brunswick, Menendez, the son of Cuban immigrants, invoked the American dream. “I believe that democracy is best served when we are lifted up by our hopes,” he said.

Referencing the tide of anti-war sentiment that helped carry him to victory despite questions about his ethics, he said, “we need to change the direction in Washington.”

Gov. Jon Corzine, who handpicked Menendez as his replacement in the Senate after his successful gubernatorial campaign last year, said Menendez had character “to stand up to the president on the war in Iraq.”

An unofficial exit poll taken yesterday of 172 voters from Hudson, Bergen, Essex, Middlesex and Somerset counties found that 29 percent of voters voted for Kean, while 68 percent of the voters chose Menendez.

Disapproval of the Bush administration and the Iraq war swayed many voters’ decisions, polls found, despite Kean’s efforts to paint Menendez as corrupt.

Many New Jersey residents indicated they don’t have much faith in Menendez. He’s “the lesser of two evils,” said Bergen County resident Bob Shine, a 65-year-old teacher who cast his vote for the incumbent at Somerville Elementary School in Ridgewood. “I wanted this to be a vote against George W. Bush and the Iraq problem.”

Bergen county, with roughly 106,000 Democrats, 98,000 Republicans and 297,000 unaffiliated voters, was one of the state’s fiercest battlegrounds during the race and the subject of intense campaigning in the days before the midterm election, as Democrats sought to wrest control of Congress from Republicans.

Democrats are projected to gain the 15 seats needed to take control of the House of Representatives for the first time in 12 years, in addition to capturing a majority of governorships and legislatures.

By press time Tuesday, Democrats had ousted Republican Senators in Rhode Island, Pennsylvania and Ohio, gaining three of the six seats they need to control the Senate. Democrats also knocked out Republican governors in six states, including Ohio, Massachusetts, Maryland and New York, where Eliot Spitzer was projected to win by a wide margin.

Menendez was regarded as the Senate’s only vulnerable Democrat, since Kean accused him of improperly taking $300,000 in taxpayer money in the form of rent from a federally subsidized non-profit organization in Union City.

Interviews yesterday with voters from four separate districts in Ridgewood found that Menendez appeared to trounce Kean. Of 83 residents, 51 people said they voted for Menendez, 27 said they voted for Kean and 5 voted for independent candidates.

In a barrage of television advertising fueled by a war chest of some $10.8 million, the Menendez camp aimed to frame the race as a referendum on President Bush and the Iraq War. The ads painted Kean, whose father served two terms as Governor, as a supporter of the war and Bush ally. In comparison, Kean raised $7,017,136, according to campaign finance reports.

Menendez voted against the Iraq War in 2002.

“On a national level, many people are questioning decisions President Bush has made, and Republicans in the Senate,” said Ingrid W. Reed, a policy analyst at The Eagleton Institute of Politics at Rutgers University. “As a Democrat, Menendez has worked to make himself the anti-Bush candidate, and make that the focal issue in this race.”

His tactics proved effective with many New Jersey voters, who have not elected a Republican to the Senate since 1972.

“I think a lot of people want to send a message to Bush,” said Basking Ridge resident Ann Cade. Though she’s a Democrat, Cade said she’s open to voting for candidates from both parties. But where the war in Iraq is concerned, “we’re in a mess and there’s no answer as far as Republicans go.”

Menendez and Kean had been neck and neck leading into the election. On Nov. 6, a Quinnipiac University poll reported that Menendez had a 48 to 43 percent lead over Kean, Nine percent of voters were undecided and 8 percent of those who name a candidate said they might change their mind before Election Day.

According to the New Jersey elections division, the state has some 4.8 million registered voters, of which 1.15 million are Democrats, 890,118 are Republicans, and 2.8 million—roughly 55 percent-- are unaffiliated.

Though Kean worked to make ethics a central issue in the campaign, the topic never dominated the campaign, said Gregory Wawro, an associate professor of political science at Columbia University. He said it’s possible the allegations didn’t resonate with voters, or they may be “more concerned with advancing the Democratic party than with debating Menendez’s record.”

Federal prosecutors have subpoenaed information about the Union City non-profit, but Menendez said he did nothing wrong and the lease was approved by House ethics attorneys. The Democrat has not been charged with wrongdoing.

“I don’t think Menendez is the most honest person, but there needs to be a change,” said Richard Stevens, 52, a Democrat who voted at Ridgewood High School Tuesday afternoon.

For some voters, the attacks on Menendez’s character were influential. Marybeth Kakolewski, 54, a school nurse, pointed out that most educators have supported Menendez, who received the support of the American Federation of Teachers and other unions. But Kakolewski voted for Kean because, she said, “he’s a more honest candidate.”

Robert Klugman, 41, a white accountant from Hoboken, said he voted for Kean for similar reasons. “I’m just sick of politicians being dishonest, and Menendez is just more of the same.”

Race may also have been a decisive factor in the campaign, Reed said. New Jersey’s growing population of Hispanic residents may have worked to Menendez’s advantage, she said.

Census data from 2004 indicated that 63.8 percent of New Jersey residents were white, 14.5 percent black, 14.9 percent Hispanic and 7 percent Asian.

“I like Menendez because he’s for the minorities,” said Michael Gammage, 45, an African-American machine operator. After voting at Camden Street School in Newark, Gammage said he was aware of attacks on Menendez’s character, but “there’s just as many crooked Republicans as there are crooked Democrats. I’m going to be fool enough to believe that the good will outweigh the bad.”

Reed added that it’s hard to get accurate poll data on the effect of race on voting, because it’s hard to tell if people are telling the truth in their responses. “Even after the election is over, we may never know what role – if any – race played in how people voted,” Reed said.

Meanwhile, problems with electronic voting machines were reported across the state.

Polling places in Essex, Camden and Salem County encountered mechanical problems, according to Jeff Lamm, a spokesman for the New Jersey State Division of Elections. While the machines were out of commission, he said, voters used emergencies paper ballots. Some, but not all, of the machines were fixed by the end of the day.

All of New Jersey’s 21 counties used electronic voting machines in the state primary, but four, including Essex and Camden, were using them for the first time in a statewide election, Lamm said.

In Hoboken, residents held aloft signs that said “The pride of Hudson County – Bob Menendez.” A white sedan plastered with Menendez posters drove up and down Washington St.

Daniel Hernandez, 28, who is Puerto Rican, said opposing Bush is the most important issue in the race. “Bush is a crook, and a killer, and anybody who’d be in a party with him doesn’t deserve my vote,” he said.

As for allegations about Menendez’s ethical record, “they don’t bother me too much,” Hernandez said. “They’re all crooks. Some are just better at not getting caught.”

Midterm Election Fun

2006-11-05T20:15:00.000-05:00

When I was holidaying in Israel back in April, I remember switching on CNN to see Bush fielding a LIVE question and answer session at Johns Hopkins University in Washington D.C.

Finally the footage that made me cringe has made it onto Youtube...

Halloween!

2006-11-04T01:36:00.000-05:00

Hello.

Well, the photos from the Journalism School Halloween Party have finally arrived! Let me guide you through the cultural vortex that is Halloween in America. Could all the French people please leave the room?

1. In America, girls use Halloween as a way to break free of all the Protestant self-denial that rules their everyday lives. Date this, date that, first base this, heart-to-heart that, it all goes out the window when they choose their once-a-year costume. Just look at this orgiastic, Bacchanalian scene from the pit of paganism that is Amsterdam Avenue:

2. Oh hey look, here's me! My costume was the Wall Street Journal, a witticism that allowed me to get away with just wearing a suit.

3. This, my friends, is what we call camera-fucking. When the camera is on, the exotic dancing begins. When it is turned off, the girls get back to downing rum and smoking Gitanes in the corner.

4. This is me and Bill. It seems like we each believe the other is the sidekick.

5. The irony is, he's a certified doctor and she genuinely needs medical attention!!!

Oh, and I saw Borat tonight. I laughed a lot, but I have to admit that I did think a couple of scenes went way too far. I tried to be above the whining critics who always have to take everything very seriously, but, come on, why did they delete the cheese scene and keep in the naked testicle-wrestling? Only my Turkish friend believed it was a great move, but, well, he's Turkish.

Exile

2006-11-03T01:51:00.000-05:00

I had dinner tonight with Lorenzo, Ana (his girlfriend), Ayub and an Iraqi blogger called Zeyad who is currently studying Journalism at City University of NY.

He writes a blog called "Healing Iraq". Here is his post from October 16, 2006:

"Another close friend of mine has been killed in Baghdad. We had lunch together in Baghdad just days before I left.

I can't concentrate on anything any more. I should not be here in New York running around a stupid neighbourhood, asking people about their 'issues'.

I now officially regret supporting this war back in 2003. The guilt is too much for me to handle."

What can you say after reading things like that? It's like when I hear Ayub, a Kurd who lived in Halabja for God's sake, mocking the Iraq war and US policy. If even those who suffered the worst under Saddam Hussein say Iraq is in an even worse state than before, you really know you've blundered.

By the way, you can hear both Ayub and Zeyad on a recent radio programme on National Public Radio about Iraqi journalists. Click here.

Good news: Borat comes out tomorrow! Here is a scene that didn't make the final cut to celebrate.

"It's not easy for me, because I'm thoughtful."

2006-10-29T12:00:00.000-05:00

Hello chaps

2006-10-25T14:51:00.000-04:00

I thought I'd just update you on the work I'm doing here. Sorry, I meant 'work'.

So far, the backbone of the first term has been 'Reporting And Writing 1', by far the best thing about this school. You're sent out to cover a neighborhood - in my case, a shtetl - and each week you have to report and write an article. The theme is picked by the professor and changes every week, from poverty to crime to immigration, but it's up to you to provide the goods. It's an excellent practical introduction to the vagaries of interviewing, reporting, writing and editing. Added to this we are also given a drill every week where we have to produce bulletins and articles on the spot. I also enjoy the one-day spot news assignments.

The rest is a mixed bag. And when I say 'mixed', I mean 'fertiliser'. And when I say 'bag', I mean 'bag'. Apart from my New Media skills class, in which I actually learn useful things, all my other classes are about as helpful as a compass made of cheese. I am five weeks into my Economic & Financial Reporting class, in which I sit for two hours learning how to Google. The classes are TWO HOURS LONG, but the teacher somehow manages to treat these hours as if they were inconsequential blades of grass, to be trodden upon without a care in the world. Who cares that none of us has a clue about economics and finance? Best to just stumble along and see what happens. Every week she comes in, talks in a vague way about nothing in particular, shows us how to use Google and then lets us go after having brought us two hours closer to death.

Last week she was ill, so this week we are going to have a four-hour class to catch up. You see what time means to her? It means nothing. She will sit down and talk in a scattered, haphazard way for four hours. It is hell.

Being conscientious, earnest journalism students, we are also taught ethics and 'Critical Issues'. Basically, every week we are given a long, tedious lecture about some moral dilemma that journalists face when writing about the opening of a local shopping centre or something equally inane. How many free king size Snickers bars at a press junket should one consume before it constitutes 'bribery' (or just utter gluttony)? Should we accept this widescreen, HD-ready television that Rummy has just handed us, upon which is attached a note entitled "staying the course in Iraq"? I just don't know. Anyway, it's pointless.

We are also taught 'New York As A Foreign Country', a patronising mishmash of complicated lessons in government and utterly basic pointers of how to eat with a knife and fork without bursting into tears. The teacher is wonderful, though, a genuinely funny guy with a realistic take on US affairs and history. I just don't understand how he can begin the course by saying that Americans know little about history, but then spend every lesson explaining what baptism means or what the Reformation was.

Anyway, it's all very enjoyable and to be honest I have learned a lot. I still haven't quite become used to bothering people and getting treated like an arse in return, though. The paradox of the journalist is that he loves to meet people and talk to them, yet everybody hates his guts. I don't know whether I'm in a difficult neighbourhood because of the religious and social conservatism, but yesterday I attempted to interview a female teacher outside a Jewish school and it ended very awkwardly. She nervously responded to my basic questions about the number of students at the school with "I don't know if I should tell you this information".

After a while she ran away, and, as I was going over my notes, a bearded man hovered into view.

"What is your name?" he asked. I told him.
"What is the purpose of your visit?" he asked. I told him.

Suddenly the lollipop lady who I'd been talking to before turned to me and said, "Oh, that's the husband of the teacher you just spoke to."

I immediately tensed up and the husband began to elaborate on the reason for his social visit to me. "What are you doing asking all these questions? Why did you ask my wife what hours she comes and goes, why did you want to find that out?"

I politely replied that I hadn't, in fact, asked those questions at all. His tone softened and he said that his wife had told him in the car that a strange man was asking all sorts of questions outside the school. "You can't be too careful," he said to me, and we continued talking about other things.

I fumed inwardly about all the suspicion I've encountered in this neighbourhood, but to be honest I think it's the same everywhere. People absolutely despise journalists, especially smug ones at university called Lionel.

Dramatic Irony

2006-10-17T12:12:00.000-04:00

I hate irony. Absolutely loathe it, but especially so when I have no control over it.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with the sun streaming through the windows. The leprous pigeons of New York City, with all their charming deformities, were cooing outside. It was truly a beautiful day, and I felt like I'd slept on a bed of goose down and marshmallows for twenty years.

And then I turned to the clock, which proudly told me it was 10:05. Class had started five minutes ago.

While swearing myself into oblivion, my thoughts turned to excuses. If my years in school taught me something, it's that nothing assuages guilt like a good excuse. You begin to believe in it, as though you genuinely were suffering from the dreaded 'Pekinese Twinge' that morning when you woke up 45 minutes late and decided to read the back of the cornflakes packet for another 15.

So my first plan was simply to say I was ill and stay home for the day. As the minutes ticked by, this plan became less and less attractive. Say I was ILL??? The worst excuses are sometimes the most believeable ones, I told myself. (Not sure why.) So I then thought I'd concoct a hilariously fantastical story that would still allow me to burst into class 40 minutes late and sit down without receiving any reproving looks. As I pulled on a pair of jeans and my new jacket (I got it for $70 at Macy's...long live Macy's) I decided I would invent a yarn about getting locked out of my apartment.

Ha ha, I thought, genius! It just might work! I got locked out, had to run to see the superintendent to get back in, it's a great story, people will laugh and I'll get off scot-free!

Of course, upon arriving at the Journalism School building, my brain got a dose of reality. Here I was, a 23-year-old graduate student at a prestigious university, about to pull out the most ridiculously immature made-up excuse since Charles X defended his invasion of Algeria by claiming that the Algerian Bey had given the French Ambassador a "bit of a dirty look."

So I climbed the stairs, opened the door to my stunned class, and sat down as if nothing was wrong. Later, I simply told my professor the truth: I'd overslept. Everything went fine and hunky-dory.

So this morning, imagine my surprise when I actually DID get locked out of my apartment. I'd just got out of bed and waddled out of my apartment in a pair of purple boxers, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt (ask your dad) and an odd pair of argyll socks to grab the New York Times sitting on the landing. I remember holding the door, letting it softly rest against the lock, and then hearing it go 'click' when I bent down to pick up my newspaper.

How bloody ironic.

As in any embarrassing emergency, you spend about five minutes trying to register who could help you. You then swallow your pride and realise that as there are no bells on the apartment doors, you're going to have to go down to the ground floor and ring apartments from there. Knowing your luck with God, everyone will have left the building to go to a nearby Free Jam And Wodges Of Cash festival, leaving you to stand mournfully by the door in your underwear and today's paper.

Thankfully my flatmate WAS in, although obviously it involved standing in the cold at noon in my underwear. I just looked like one of those uncaring guys who regularly walks around in public either naked or barely dressed. And obviously, again because of my luck, the only people who saw me were the Beautiful Nymphomaniac Dancing Divorcees of Belize, who would otherwise of course have invited themselves up to my room for a camomile tea and a spot of bondage.

Anyway, just wanted to complain for a bit. Most New Yorkers just stand on street corners and vent their rage at strangers, so I'm not too far gone yet.

Kablammo

2006-10-15T19:52:00.000-04:00

So, you all know that the Democratic Republic of (North) Korea last week detonated a nuclear bomb underground. A few of you probably spent hours arguing over whether it was a 550-ton 'fizzle' or a 15 kiloton megablast, or even whether it was just some Korean chap breaking wind. But how many of you have visited the official website of our favourite Asia-Pacific renegade?

By clicking here, you can find out about the history and leadership of North Korea. The chapters on 'Anti-Japanese Fighting' and 'Motherland's Liberation' are particularly moving, putting the "Yankees" and their South Korean "puppet army" in their place. And please don't tell me you buy all that Western capitalist propaganda about famine in North Korea! This tells you all you need to know:

"Pyongyang and the today's North Korea is a socialist paradise where all the people have a life with dignity, without poverty and more than ever demonstrate the invincibility and union of the masses around the Leader."

WITHOUT poverty! Hear that, Bolton-san? And if that doesn't whet your appetite, there's a special yearly business trip for all you investors out there. Pre-inscription for this year's trip has closed - and not a moment too soon, what with all that brouhaha in the U.N. about sanctions - but 2007 has got to be a shoe-in. It only costs 2,900 Euros for a week of "private meetings" with "state companies" related to your "field of expertise"! And they say socialism dampens the entrepreneurial spirit...

Mahmoud, Massoud & Maryam

2006-09-20T10:11:00.000-04:00

Maryam Rajavi, President-elect of the National Council for the Resistance of Iran, and her husband Massoud, the Chairman, hosted a rally yesterday opposite the UN to oppose the presence of President Ahmadinejad at the General Assembly. I was there to give you the full, unbiased scoop!

First of all, demonstrations outside the United Nations are worth seeing in themselves. You can imagine the various grievances all the peoples of the world have, so it's organised in a very orderly fashion. Everyone is allocated a strip of the Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, and the Iranian rally took place in between two simultaneous Pakistani protests, one branding Pervez Musharraf a "dictator" and demanding his resignation (which was packed) and another saying that the Pakistani leader was in fact a "clever" man, a swell guy who represented the final front against terrorism (which contained about twelve people, ten of whom were security guards).

I chatted to a few Iranian demonstrators before the rally kicked off. I am always struck by how kind and friendly Iranian people are, considering they've often had the shittiest and most tragic past. They carried banners attacking Ahmadinejad and the mullahs, and held up photographs of the Rajavis. I purposely asked about Jacques Chirac's comments the day before, about the ineffectiveness of sanctions, in the hope of getting a juicy quote. Javad Maliki was on hand to give me one: "President Chirac would sell his OWN MOTHER!" But when I asked them whether they would ever support a military attack on Iran, they said no. A spokesman for the rally said that the regime would welcome it, and would use it to further suppress the Iranian people.

So now that we've established how normal and sweet these supporters of democracy are, why the hell are they forced to support the NCRI? It is listed as a terrorist organisation by the US and EU, mainly because it's the more acceptable face of the Mujahedeen-e-Khalq. Maryam Rajavi spoke to the crowd in Farsi, and one person who was translating her words told me how she disagreed with her aggressive rhetoric about intervention in Iran. Anyway, at least the music was good.

I also spoke to an elderly lady known as 'Mother Yahyavi' - though I think mother just means Maryam, so it could have been her first name - and felt helpless as she sobbed her way through her family tragedies. She showed me her mangled foot, where three bullets from the Revolutionary Guard had broken it, and told me of her sons' deaths at the hands of the RG. I just felt bad because instead of writing this up for the New York Times, I returned to the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism and handed the story in effectively as homework.

That night, Ayub told me of his experiences as a reporter in Iraq trailing the Mujahedeen. After the fall of Saddam Hussein, he and a group of Iranian families who hadn't seen their Mujahedeen sons for 25 years decided to find Camp Ashraf and bring their children home. Apparently when they arrived, a burly guard told them that they were all agents of the Iranian regime and were not allowed to pass. The families went mental, showering the guard and his organisation in expletives, but nothing worked.

Ayub then told me of his interviews with mujahedeen when he finally gained access to Camp Ashraf with a reporter from the New York Times. Apparently the men and women are never allowed contact, and there is a rule that orders a stop to all sexual intercourse until the Islamic Republic has fallen. One recruit explained that he had been lured to the camp with promises of money and all-expenses-paid relaxation, and only when it was too late had he found out that there was no way out once he got in. They are banned from leaving! The bizarre ideological strictures also mean that if they ever have doubts, or even a wet dream (!), they must go and see the camp commander immediately.

It all sounded very strange, but I don't think Ayub would make any of it up. I just don't know who I'd choose to lead Iran, crazy revolutionary cultists or crazy reactionary cultists.

The Impossible Dream

2006-09-19T08:50:00.000-04:00

I'm being sent out to the UN today to cover a protest by Iranian-Americans against Ahmadinejad's appearance. They want a democratic, nuclear-free Iran. How bloody tedious, I was hoping for a riotous round of Pope-burning and Jew-baiting.

Positively Cretinous

2006-09-18T23:22:00.000-04:00

Oscar Wilde, in Intentions, spoke of "the crude commercialism of America, its materialising spirit, its indifference to the poetical side of things, and its lack of imagination and of high unattainable ideals". He attributed this to the country's "national hero", George Washington, whose "cherry-tree has done more harm, and in a shorter space of time, than any other moral tale in the whole of literature."

Though Washington's inability to tell a lie may have cast a long shadow over morality in the US, I would say that there is now an abundance, not a lack, of high unattainable ideals floating around North America. Ironically, it has commingled with the homely wisdom of George Washington's cherry tree, creating a truly hideous beast that leads all self-respecting Englishmen to break out into a rash.

In a similar manner to their French cousins, Americans have a very republican notion of civic pride and attach a lofty importance to virtue and morality. But this is not the kind of dedicated intellectual delusion that you will find in France's past. Louis St-Just once said, "Between the people and their enemies there can be nothing in common but the sword; we must govern by iron those who cannot be governed by justice; we must oppress the tyrant". Though America has its fair share of revolutionary firebrands, they would all willingly cast away their tomes in favour of George Washington's innocent, schmaltzy announcement to his father: "I cannot tell a lie."

Starry-eyed morality is just not the British way of doing things. There's an excellent piece in today's Financial Times about the 'positively cretinous' oath that all students of the Thunderbird Business School in Arizona must take. "As a Thunderbird and a global citizen," the fresh-faced magnates of the future declare, "I will strive to act with honesty and integrity. I will respect the rights and dignity of all people, I will strive to create sustainable prosperity worldwide . . ." Lucy Kellaway dismisses this as 'so vague as to amount to nothing'. The underlying problem is that these vague aspirations are positive and idealistic, rather than stern admonishments explaining what NOT to do.

Last week, one of the professors here embarked on yet another of his deeply pretentious rambles about ethics in journalism, which could simply be summed up as "don't make stuff up." But he just would not stop talking in inflated tones about the importance of morality in journalism, at one point saying that journalists should take the Ancient Egyptian god Thoth as their example, weighing up good and evil before putting pen to paper. But he didn't fool me. I could tell that in fact he saw HIMSELF as Thoth, who was not just a moral scribe but in fact a crucial part of the universe and creator of all forms of knowledge. Only a psychotic with a God complex could imagine that journalists have such a crucial place in the moral universe.

We in Britain know better. We know that journalism is a grubby profession, which involves lying, stealing and bribing your way into a story so that you don't get fired by your exacting editor. The rest is common sense: whoever decided to doctor those photos of the bombardment of Lebanon earlier this year was not doing so because of a lack of Aristotelian direction, but simply because he was an idiot. Or because he was under pressure from his boss at Reuters. Or both. Either way, just try not to make stuff up.

In class after the speech, we were all asked to explain where our own morality comes from. I think it says something that only the international students - myself, Lorenzo and Claire - had real problems explaining ourselves. The American students had clearly fretted a lot about how to be Good, but only in a permanently unattainable way. It would make far more sense to create a simple list of what NOT to do, rather than to pore over Martin Luther King's writing as some sort of magical codex that might unlock the ethereal power of Good. Following in the footsteps of Milton, De Sade and William Blake, I think it would be much better to throw yourself into Evil in order to truly understand what Good is.

Do You Want More!?

2006-09-11T16:06:00.000-04:00

Well, as expected, my new update after weeks of silence is not an incredible tapestry of gun violence, cocaine binges and Jewish princesses. It is instead a half-hearted, apologetic mish-mash of various barely-remembered quips and dull descriptions of what I did during my weekend. Here is the update in question:

I've spent the past two weeks exploring Borough Park a bit more. I realised that I actually have very little time for Hassidic Jews, and most extremists of any religion. Most people don't give a shit one way or the other about these men who walk around like gangly Pollyannas, with their sidelocks wafting in the breeze and their thoughts on what rules they must not break. Nor do they spare more than a cursory thought for their wives, who push wide prams containing twelve babies at a time and stare with suspicious anger at anyone who crosses their path. Only reform, secular or lapsed Jews are fascinated by these bizarre caricatures. They suddenly realise that the notion that all Jews have some abstract, metaphysical bond is pure horseshit, and either they feel contempt for these arch-religionists or they are filled with guilt and try desperately to become accepted as 'proper' Jews.

I am straddling both options at the moment. For every Hassid that scowls at me and refuses to treat me like a member of the human race, there is another kindly one who chats for ages and rekindles my faith in society. One such godsend was a stereotypical Ashkenazi tailor, with a long grey beard and little yarmulke teetering on his head. He was full of great quips as he fitted me out for my suit: "Oy, you look like a million dollars!...Green and wrinkly." He wanted to invite me to his family's house for dinner. Mr Zeiger, you are a true mensch.

Anyway, to entertain you guys who are bored at work and are tired of hearing my weekly column that really is starting to sound like Will Self writing for Home & Garden, here are some assignments from the journalism school. I had to research and write a profile on my friend Pete Holley, and he had to research and write one on me.

Enjoy!

PETE HOLLEY'S PROFILE ON ME (he unbelievably said my father was British!?!? And I want to work for the FT, not the Economist. But he did a pretty funny piece)

In many ways, Lionel Laurent had the idyllic British upbringing. He grew up in Knight’s Bridge, one of London’s most upscale and exclusive neighborhoods. He attended Westminster School, a highly competitive private school where London’s young upper class is groomed for spots at the country’s top universities. And he was promised by his father, a successful British businessman, any number of coveted job interviews upon graduation. Like many kids in his crowd, it would have been easy for the young Brit to remain satisfied, if not altogether complacent.

And yet, Laurent, 23, wanted more. He disliked his school’s antiquated customs and brash insularity. Questioning the way his quiet, upper class community sealed itself off from the rest of the city, he often found himself scouring distant neighborhoods in search of contrast, new friends or the latest undiscovered band. And over time he grew weary of the precarious predictability that he felt would accompany a life in business or law.

Although he would later find himself immersed in journalism, as a sullen teen trying to make sense of his posh surroundings, it was the transcendent intensity of music that initially captured his imagination.

“I was a huge Metallica fan,” Laurent said, adding that he never saw the heavy metal band as an outlet for the brooding or depressed. “Surely, at some deep level it is a catharsis for young sweaty boys.”

It was the first of many transient obsessions for Laurent, who could easily be called a drifter, but is more accurately defined by his restless curiosity and his desire for new experiences. That curiosity, coupled with an under-dog’s sense of self-deprecation, have created what is arguably the perfect template for a journalist: An inquisitive individual with a keen intellect and a wry sense of humility.

"His interests have always been pretty fluid," said Joe Lewin, a childhood friend who has remained close to Laurent over the years. "Generally being based on whoever he feels he is at that moment in time."

At this moment in time Laurent finds himself thousands of miles from home, embarking on his latest obsession: Journalism. For Laurent, who studied English at Oxford, followed by a Masters in History and International Relations at the London School of Economics, journalism is fundamentally an exercise in ideas and analysis. It's one reason, he says, that he revels in the idea of one day writing for The Economist.

"I think there should be more journalists who have one area of expertise," said Laurent, noting his disdain for American journalists who hop from one international conflict to the next. "I think the industry should move away from people like Tom Friedman."

MY PROFILE ON PETE HOLLEY

After picking up whatever news was left on the 450-year-old city streets of Annapolis, Maryland, Peter Holley left The Capitol newspaper’s headquarters just after midnight and made his way home. With the September rain seeping through his coat, he unlocked the front door and cursed inwardly when he saw his housemate, Amy, on the living room couch, cozying up to the latest in a long line of sexagenarian lovers. “She was unquestionably unattractive,” he later recalled. Muttering a brief ‘hello’, Peter trudged up the antiquated staircase and down the landing, catching the whiff of hay and excrement emanating from Amy’s bedroom, which housed six unruly rabbits and was rarely clean. He held his breath and entered his bedroom, collapsed on the bed and thought, “I can’t do this anymore.”

The year was 2005, and Peter Holley had been working close to four months for the Annapolis Capitol, covering the night shift from Tuesday to Saturday, 3 p.m. to midnight, every week. His beat was small town banality, the daily grind of fires, robberies and whatever else the local readership was told to care about. “I was disillusioned by the profession,” he said. His lack of a social life also contributed to his winter depression. He said that “the late nights were the worst, especially on Saturdays.” But now, the 23-year-old journalist looks back on that period as one of the most important in his young career. It marked the moment when he decided to apply to the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism.

Thousands of budding journalists and more experienced reporters make the decision to apply to journalism school every year, but this does nothing to stem the heated debate over its merits. For some, the cost of tuition alone is enough to settle the matter, as a one-year Master of Science course at Columbia’s J-School typically costs around $35,000. For others, it is the very principle of a journalism degree that is repellent, as it attempts to teach the principles of a profession that are usually learnt through hard graft and practical experience. Some critics have even suggested that journalism is a last resort for indecisive college graduates who simply don’t know what to do with their lives.

Peter Holley, however, knew exactly what he wanted to achieve at journalism school. “I felt like Columbia was the only way to reflect on my writing, improve and advance my career,” he said. Though he had become a journalist almost by accident, Peter had developed a passion for storytelling, something that The Capitol’s news pages were not ready for. His first article, written during his college days as a petty-cab driver trying to make ends meet, was inspired by his customers and their curious stories. “To me, journalism is an art form,” he said, adding that he liked “compelling” tales rather than hard news.

Peter’s father, Joe Holley, a 60-year-old journalist, remembered his son’s mixed feelings upon starting work at The Capitol. “Peter was apprehensive of getting into journalism,” he said. Though Peter was excited about the possibilities of covering the lives of real people, his father said that “he was afraid of getting caught up in the minutiae of small town journalism.” But Joe Holley knew better than to be worried about his son’s fears, as this was not the first time that a new situation had unnerved Peter. Whether starting a new school or encountering unfamiliar territory, Peter would always begin by stressing his inability to cope. “His mom and I have learned that it’s just a phase,” said his father.

After his first two weeks at the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism, Peter admitted that he was having doubts as to whether he had made the right choice. For some reason, after that fateful night in September 2005 when he decided to apply to the school, his job at The Capitol had taken a turn for the better. After six months of the graveyard shift, he was promoted to City Reporter and started to cover local government. “Everything changed,” he said. He worked more reasonable hours, from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., and relished the challenge of the political beat. “I finally got a grasp of how to do basic stories,” he said.

Peter said that his articles were telling stories that “had meaning”. He threw himself into investigative journalism, exposing a landlord in town who was cheating his tenants by refusing to maintain their apartments. When immigration became a hot topic, he wrote a story on the immigrant workers of Annapolis, without whom the city would shut down. His most prized work is a profile he wrote in early 2006 about a crack-addicted prostitute named Beth, who ended up on ‘The Dr. Phil Show’ because of the article. “We still keep in touch,” said Peter.

Having fun was also a possibility for Peter after his promotion. He started a local kickball team for singles, which he described as “goofy” but relaxing. He also enjoyed an intimate relationship with Beth Piccarillo, the only one of his Capitol colleagues that he was able to confide in. But just as things were finally getting better, Peter had to leave in order to prepare for his year at journalism school. “When I left, the newspaper’s publisher committed suicide,” he said.

It remains to be seen whether Peter Holley’s experience at the Columbia Journalism School turns out to be more valuable than climbing the greasy pole of the Annapolis Capitol. He said yesterday that he was “feeling better” after his initial regrets. One of his new friends at the J-school, Roopa Gona, 26, said that “he sounds confused about what he wants to do.” She said she was surprised at how honest he was about his fears, and that Peter seemed to have opinions on everything and everyone. “But his heart’s in the right place,” she quickly added, with a smile.

Brooklyn, Schnooklyn

2006-08-27T00:24:00.000-04:00

This morning I got up bright and early and went with Ayub and Lorenzo to explore our assigned neighbourhoods in Brooklyn. You can probably tell that I wasn't too thrilled with Bushwick, so I decided to check out Borough Park as an alternative. It's an Orthodox Jewish enclave...enough said. We took the subway, which was actually the first time I used public transport here. The carriages are nice and spacious like in Paris, and the trains run 24 hours, but it can take absolutely ages to get to where you want to go because there are so few intersections to change lines from. The journey wasn't entirely dull, though, with Ayub telling us stories of exchanging pot shots with Iraqi border guards and the Turkish repression of Kurds. At one point, an immaculately dressed Spanish guy sat opposite us and began to sing - I looked around and noticed that someone else was filming him while another guy played the backing track through a tinny speaker. This was a music video! Everyone else was just staring at him so we decided to clap along. Hopefully the video will become widely available so you can see me grinning bashfully next to a Kurd and a Colombian clicking their fingers. The singer's name is Jose Luis Manzanero, and that boy is going places.

We arrived in Brooklyn and took in the beautiful sights of a slightly narrower Manhattan. I think my companions blended in very well:

We picked a direction and began walking. Each block was virtually identical: video game store, restaurant, barbers, hardware store. At one point we saw a fire engine backing into a station marked 'Ladder 14'. I told Ayub and Lorenzo that, as they were covering this area, they should go over and introduce themselves to the grizzled, white-haired fireman who looked like he'd seen more deaths than Pol Pot. After all the experience Ayub has had covering a warzone, I could not believe that he seemed terrified of doing this. So I put on my best clueless Brit accent and introduced myself to 'Mike McGuire', who had a perfect thick Brooklyn accent. He told us where the control office was, pointed out a few things, was generally helpful. By the way, we've been told time and time again not to do any 'Bogarting', ie what everyone dreams of doing as a reporter in New York. So it's always best to grovel and be polite - if you sidle up to a cop and say 'hey tootsie, spill the beans or I'm gonna ravish your wife', consider the city closed.

Further into Sunset Park, the influx of Chinese became rather apparent. A kindly old lady told us that the Chinese came to the area 'ten families at a time', even living in the basement of houses, which once upon a time was not actually allowed. She was also upset that her neighbour John cluttered up his yard, especially as he was 'one of them...you know, gays' and lived with a 'friend'. There was a great market, however:

It was now time to go to Borough Park. It's utterly amazing how, in the space of one street, you can go from all-Chinese to all-Hassidim. Women began to wear strange dark robes and tough little hats, while children stared sulkily from their sidelocks (well, maybe not, but the alliteration sounds really good). I picked a random guy to introduce myself to, a guy in his 50s/60s who was sitting on the steps of his house. 'Ernest' turned out to be originally from Romania, a self-described 'Liberal Jew' who did not have many kind words to say about his Hassidic neighbours. By this point we were very hungry, so I said my goodbyes and did not even bother visiting Bushwick. My future lies with my people, Tevye!

So now I'm just trawling through websites trying to find a suit and a kippah. Irritatingly, I can only find bizarre novelty ones with sequins on them, or custom-made leather ones that only Peter Stringfellow would wear. But it's good that I've finally got a neighbourhood. And I've almost finished my dissertation, so I'll be able to concentrate my studies on street reporting and the Pentateuch.

PS Joe, please check your email again, I need some tips on how to style my sideburns

A Bronx Tail

2006-08-25T19:06:00.000-04:00

At 8.45am my journalism colleagues and I gathered at 116th and Amsterdam for a bus tour of the Bronx. This neighbourhood has appeared in films such as "A Bronx Tale" with Chazz Palminteri, "Rumble In The Bronx" with Jackie Chan and "The Bronx Executioner", a bizarre Italian sci-fi film involving a soldier getting raped by female androids. I've given up trying to remember the demographic that best sums up the various parts of New York City, there's pretty much everything in the Bronx anyway. Hispanics make up about half of it, the rest mostly Black, Asian and 'other'. Before our first stop, I chatted to a nice guy from the West Coast who's actually my next door neighbour. He will also be covering Bushwick, so I made him promise that we'd go out there together for the first time at least. I wasn't like 'Promise...PROMISE!' or anything, but I think we understood each other.

Our tour guide was Gary, a journalist from the Bronx, whose talk show on local television had just been cancelled after seven years. He evidently seemed depressed about it, and kept mentioning that he had been taken off the air for being subversive and outspoken about development in the Bronx. When we arrived at the site where the new Yankee stadium was being built, he became more active and introduced us to Councilwoman Helen Foster. Helen had voted 'no' (along with only two others) to the project, arguing that it made life hell for those living nearby and did not guarantee any jobs or economic improvement. The unions had the site stitched up, effectively cutting off any unrepresented jobhunters. Before going to the next place of interest, a security guard asked Gary what we were up to. Gary told us later that this interrogation was typical of the corporatisation of New York, and added that a certain talk show had been taken off the air after a seven-year run for the same reason.

At this point it began to rain hard, and the shabby streets and run-down shops took on a more glum appearance. We were driven to a development project by SoBro, a non-profit organisation that valiantly searched for unused or run-down real estate and turned it into affordable residential/office space. Though living space is scarce in New York, some run-down apartment blocks are left empty to serve some other purpose, most often to serve as a prop-up for a huge television channel billboard. We got off the bus and walked round an office block that had once been an empty factory. In the midst of the SoBro representative's description, my friend Ayub (a Kurd from Iraq) sarcastically whispered, "Oh wow, so amazing. There are people starving all over the world and we're being told about an old building that was renovated."

Ayub is an interesting guy. You can read his profile and his articles on OpenDemocracy. He speaks six languages and has a repertoire of bizarre jokes. One of them is: "an elephant and an ant go into the shower together. The elephant comes out five minutes later. What happened to the ant? HE'S STUCK TO THE SOAP!" Another one, which is good in a sort of weird macabre I-see-death-every-day-in-my-life way, goes: 'a man dies and his family and friends come out to bury him. His son digs a grave and places the coffin inside the hole, but suddenly the man wakes up and gets to his feet. All the mourners scream in fear and run away. The son, however, takes out a knife and stabs his father. He then calls to the fleeing crowd, "Come back! It's okay! I 've killed him!"'

After getting home, I watched a charming French classic called "Les Aventures de Rabbi Jacob".

It's an utterly ridiculous film about an anti-Semitic old French guy who is forced to disguise himself as an Orthodox rabbi to hide from an armed group of Arab nationalists. There is a funny scene at the start of the film that really gets to the heart of what being French is like. The French guy is being driven home by his Jewish chauffeur, ranting about all the foreigners on the road. "Look, Solomon, an English car! I hate the English. And a Belgian one too! The Belgians are flooding this country." The man even stops at a mixed race marriage to scream about the fact that the bride is black and the groom white. He is then shocked upon finding out that his chauffer is Jewish, and fumes before saying, "Well, I'm keeping you anyway." After all this, the chauffeur goes, "Sir, might you not be a tiny bit racist?" The guy's reaction is classic, brilliant French hypocrisy. "ME? RACIST? Ah no, Solomon, you're going too far! Never!"

Here is the scene in question, on Youtube. There is also another a clip from the movie, in which a bunch of Ashkenazis do a dance routine. Any similarities to Iranian propaganda are entirely coincidental. Click here.

Another clip featuring the same actor is worth pointing out, because it precedes the Father Ted Hitler moustache by a few decades.

Bushwick

2006-08-22T00:08:00.000-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, your wish is granted. I have been assigned the neigbourhood of Bushwick, in Brooklyn, to patrol and report from. You can read all about it on Wikipedia. The sub-headings in the entry are: "White Flight and Economic Depression", "Riots and Looting" and "Blight and Poverty".

On Flickr you can find an online photo album of some typical Bushwick scenes. I urge you to enjoy the scenery and to imagine me in my Ralph Lauren polo shirt running as fast as my little fat legs can carry me.

It Starts

2006-08-21T01:34:00.000-04:00

I think I'm just not used to the style of journalism one finds in America, particularly in the New York Times. It's so self-consciously literary. I'm used to reading articles that print the facts in a detached, sometimes knowing voice; the N Y Times, meanwhile, seems to bring in Toni Morrison to report on tax cuts. Let me give you an example from the front page of today's edition, a story about paedophilic imagery on the internet. These are the opening lines:

"In the photograph, the model is shown rising out of a bubble bath, suds dripping from her body. Her tight panties and skimpy top are soaked and revealing. She gazes at the viewer, her face showing a wisp of a smile that seems to have been coaxed from off-camera."

What the HELL is that about? Worst of all, you can just picture the journalist thinking he's god's gift to journalism. 'Oh man,' he must think, 'with erotic language like this, the reader will feel aroused, and then when I deliver the sucker-punch that this girl is actually nine years old, just imagine the feelings of guilt that will pass through him! He will feel violated, as though HE is the paedophile!' etc etc etc. I don't really want to feel like a paedophile at 8 in the morning when I'm eating cereal and trying to find out the news of the day. God knows how the paper must report the war in Lebanon: "The Hezbollah explosives expert adjusts his eyepatch and waits, tense, like a grasshopper in the Tallahassee swampland. "It is a good day to die," he thinks, before looking up one last time at the sky." etc etc etc

Today was a big picnic for international students at Professor Freedman's house. Here's a picture for you:

We each had to describe ourselves in 5 minutes. I felt very sorry for the poor girl with the very bad stammer, the words just refused to come out and nobody really knew what to say. What CAN you say? "That's all right luv, we get the picture"? In true Peep Show style, the person after the stammering girl unintentionally said the worst thing possible: "Well I can say, without hesitation, that I am from Toronto!" I'm sure she didn't mean hesitation in that sense, but it sent a ripple of awkwardness through the circle.

For a glimpse of what students are paying $60,000 for, take a look at one of the Deans of the school hosting an interview (from Youtube.com)

Hey douchebags!

2006-08-17T23:07:00.000-04:00

Here are some dull photos, but photos nonetheless. I hid the porn in the first two, obviously.

Here are some photos of Columbia's campus. The first is the Journalism School building, with a statue of Thomas Jefferson mincing in front of it. Then we have the central steps, leading up to the Alma Mater statue; finally, the Butler library.

And if you're very lucky, next time I'll take pictures of the homeless people outside the campus as they gaze desperately through the railings, hoping that some small measure of wealth will perhaps magically fall into their crumpled paper cups.

Back in NYC

2006-08-16T08:29:00.000-04:00

I'm back in New York, which is both good and bad. Good because I can go outside, pick an avenue and just stare at the amazing things that go on in this city (although my apartment is a little TOO north for my tastes, I could do without the impatient, aggressive beggar and the Hugo Chavez Football Club outside). Bad because it means taking care of important yet dull things: bank account, mobile phone (my number in the US is now (oo 1) 914 426 2617 and the stupid apartment itself. What really made my day special was finding cockroaches in the living room and bathroom. I've just called the caretaker, and he bluntly said 'I'll call the exterminator' and hung up. I can't believe I'm living in a flat with cockroaches in Harlem, next I'll be shaking down Mr Lucewski on 127th.

I can't believe I ever thought London was multicultural, or that you had to have a debate about the inherent pitfalls of 'assimilation'. New York is nothing but a collection of ghettos, with entire neighbourhoods summed up as 'Black/Jewish', 'Russian/Hispanic'. Spanish is treated almost as a second official language here, in banks they have paperwork in Spanish and even in a computer shop I saw the Spanish version of Microsoft XP being offered. Yet the American flags proliferate, and the amount of great food I've seen walking down Broadway would certainly make up for anyone being a Mexican dissident. The only thing that pisses me off is the blatant crime problem. I get the feeling I'm not going to survive the year without being attacked. There are notices everywhere telling me of incidents nearby. Apparently last week a woman and THREE men were on Columbia campus when a black guy ran up behind the woman, got her in a head lock (!!!) and pushed an 'object' into her back (blimey). The men all handed over money and the guy ran away! So let's recap: even being on a university campus in a group of four will not deter muggers.

I'm going to sign up for Taekwondo classes, I think.

Oy vey!

2006-08-13T23:02:00.000-04:00

Sunday morning I couldn't sleep, so I watched some TV. It was execrable. The kind of TV evangelists that used to be such a cliche of the US are STILL going strong. It was like reading descriptions of Quaker ceremonies written by sceptical Anglicans in the 18th century. The congregation was trembling and dancing while the preacher just shouted whatever crap came into his head in an incredibly loud manner. I then flicked onto the news channels, which were equally disastrous. Fox News everyone knows is a joke, and CNN I find almost as bad. It's such superficial toss, and unbelievably sensationalist. The only Arab voice you hear is when they have a 'featurette' on Osama Bin Laden (part of their 'Know Your Enemy' series) in which his third dog's second owner speaks utter bullshit about a man she clearly never knew. Other than that it's moderate, balanced programmes such as "TARGET: USA" or "YOUR NEIGHBOUR RAPED YOUR CHILDREN AND IS HIDING IN THE BATHTUB".

Sunday was also the birthday of the sister of my mum's friend's husband. It was held at a Jewish Centre in New Jersey, and I was laughing the whole afternoon. It was like the worst parody of a Woody Allen film ever. Everyone had thick Brooklyn accents, we danced to magnificently cheesy Jewish medleys and the entertainment was a ventriloquist.

But a particularly nasty one. We usually hate comedians who just say things like, 'see your girlfriend, mate? She's fucking UGLY!' but in America they are apparently loved. This ventriloquist turned up and all his lines were 'god, you guys look like crap!' 'god, you are OLD! aren't you DEAD yet?' One line, and I am quoting this verbatim, was spoken by one of his dummies that was supposed to be a grumpy old man. "My wife," he said, "is huge. She takes craps bigger than me!" Bizarre. Anyway, I got off lightly. His joke for me consisted of telling the crowd that we had the best belly dancer in Staten Island at the party..."and there he is, the guy in the glasses!" It was cute, I guess. Even the fifth time he said it, I was wincing away like a guy who really can take a joke! Yes siree.

Anyway, all this is fun, but I have four days to do my dissertation and get ready for uni. It's not happening somehow.

Second Day

2006-08-12T22:45:00.000-04:00

Saturday's most memorable moment was in the evening, when we drove over to my mother's friend's son's house. This son had just had twins - well, his poor wife had - and after cooing at the frankly bizarre-looking crumpled babies, he chatted to me about Columbia. "You know, you're in the middle of Spanish Harlem. You gotta be careful."

"What, so I should work out?" I asked. Bearing in mind this guy is a huge beefcake with a crew-cut.

"Hey, it's ALWAYS good to work out. I just mean...be street-smart. Keep your eyes open. Don't go out of your way to help strangers." I realised how right he was, I was so the kind of bumbling Londoner who would run after a drug dealer telling him that he'd dropped his cocaine.

Then this guy goes, "You wanna see something cool?" It turned out 'something cool' was this guy's gun collection. GUN COLLECTION. A man who was about to look after two little twin girls was tapping in his safe combination while excitedly telling me about how rare this stuff was. "It's only thanks to my friends in the military that I have this."

He pulled out a shotgun. It looked like something from 'Doom'. He held it up and beamed proudly. "This is my burglar alarm."

Each weapon he pulled out frightened me, as though each one reminded me of how tiny my penis was. I looked at and handled a sniper rifle with scope, a Walther PPK with silencer and a fucking (you HAVE to prefix this with 'fucking') Magnum with laser sight. He assured me we would go out to the firing range one weekend and try them all out. I had a momentary image of me running naked through the woods crying with five American navy seals shooting at me with Magnums. Just momentary, you understand.

Over dinner we talked about the Middle East conflict again. The son raised a very good point about the lax attitudes in the US before 9/11. He said, chewing on some Chinese food, "if you get some towel-head come up to you and say, 'I want flying lessons', but he doesn't want to learn how to LAND, do you not think there's something WRONG here?' No amount of IR theory could rebuff that line.

First Day

2006-08-11T22:21:00.000-04:00

The people I'm staying with are pretty rich. Pretty bloody rich. The result is that when I suggest going to get a few things before I move into my flat, I'm told that we will go to a shop called "Bed, Bath & Beyond". The "Beyond" part is pretty much where I was taken. My mother and her partner in waste filled up a trolley with every utterly useless household item that has ever graced the pages of Vogue. It began with a loofah and ended with an attempt to get me to buy a pillow for $99. I was getting pissed off and demanding that anything over $1 go back to the shelves. What was worse was that my father was screaming at me over my phone saying that it was "ridicule" and "un gaspillage".

I then sat in the car and watched as my mother and her friend were driven to every pointless puffed-up department store in NYC, from 'Barneys' (which only sells about three dresses, each at $10000) to Bloomingdales. I waited in the car with the chauffeur, whose name is Milan.

"Milan...is that a Czech name?" I wondered aloud.

"No, Serbian. You ever been to ex-Yugoslavia?"

"No, but I hear it's beautiful."

"Well, it WAS beautiful. Now it's just six banana republics."

"Ah...and Kosovo? Isn't there a vote on independence ahead?"

"How can they vote for independence!? Serbia is the mother land for these people! It's those Albanians that are the problem. They breed like cucarachas."

I let the moment pass. Now wasn't a good time for a lecture about understanding. But Milan just kept going. It appeared he really didn't want anyone to feel left out.

"You know, this country, in 15 years, will become just like South America. Spanish everywhere."

He eventually moved on to black people, but I sort of zoned out after a while.

I got a sandwich from a deli and I realised how much of an English ponce I look, walking up to the counter with all the Manhattan charm of a seashell collector at Lyme Regis. The guy gave me free bananas and a pickle, so I guess it worked. Then I was finally driven to the Columbia University housing offices, where I was to collect my apartment keys.

I entered the plush white offices and again ponced and mumbled my way through an introduction. Ten minutes later I and two other students were escorted into a meeting room where a short guy spoke with an edgy, annoyed tone. "Okay guys, we are going to fill in forms fast. REAL fast. You have ten minutes to get your keys, and if you don't get them in time you'll have to wait till Monday." I was about to laugh when the man began to shout. "I want you to SIGN, PRINT and DATE! SIGN, PRINT and DATE! DO IT!" Everyone scribbled frantically. I kept making mistakes and hyperventilating. "LIONEL! SIGN, PRINT and DATE goddammit!" We weren't even allowed to read through what we were signing. Von Bismarck provided an explanation: "The first one is for lead in the paint. I don't want to see any licking of the walls. The second is for friends. Oh SURE, you want to invite your friends, huh? We want that too. Nice to have friends. But they're not staying at your place long. BOY are they not staying long...' and so on and so on.

I then was told to meet my superintendent, a black 40-year old who had an equally aggressive voice. I realised then that everyone in New York has that voice that makes you shit your pants in fear, but actually they just see it as a likeable greeting. He babbled all sorts of rules about taking out the 'garbage', checking my 'mailbox' and 'washing' my underwear. Then I went up to my apartment to see my flatmate. He smiled and mumbled nervously before running back to his little IT mousehole - he seemed like a nice guy though. The flat was ok, but with bizarre room proportions; huge living room and separate dining room, but a miniscule bathroom and kitchen. I dumped my Brita filters in my bedroom and then went for tea with my mother and a couple of friends.

It was at the Carlyle Hotel, the kind of place I imagine Sex & The City covers frequently. 'Inspired' by Ottoman art, the hotel's (Puerto Rican) staff wore fezes and sold tea priced at $35. I stared into space and listened to the vacuous talk of women: what new diets to try, gym equipment to buy and who had had the most tiring day. Actually to be fair they did touch on the Middle East conflict and said some intelligent things, but how else am I going to feel superior? After the drive home we had dinner and I read some 'Don Quixote' to warn me of what my year might turn me into.

Terror threat level: Critical

2006-08-10T21:59:00.000-04:00

I was once again at the centre of a terrorist scandal today when the authorities raised the Terror Threat level to 'critical' and banned all hand luggage on the transatlantic flights that weren't cancelled. I passed the buck on to 20 poor saps in High Wycombe, but I will no doubt fulfil my divine mission next time! May Allah give added strength to my Chanel no. 5 explosive concoction.

Seriously though, if the plot is substantiated, what a bunch of vicious little bastards. I don't know how it's appearing your end but the Americans are alarmed at the British police's recent revelation that they wanted to wait another day before making arrests. The news seems to imply that there is very little evidence to throw at these guys. Time to scour their laptops for 'Teen Dreams'.

I spent the flight watching the Enron documentary, 'The Smartest Guys in the Room', and enjoying the pantomime villainry of Skilling, Lay & co. Maybe if they knew that they'd eventually get caught, they wouldn't make so many shareholder convention speeches basically consisting of the words "MONEY! We have all the MONEY in the world! Your pension funds are OURS!" I came away with a rosy glow inside about unbridled, unregulated capitalism; the moral seems to be that if you jump ship early enough, it's perfectly ok for you to keep the money and the lap dancers. Just don't, for the love of god, be the last guy.

I landed in New York expecting my French passport to be greeted with a cry of 'you're no patriot!' but for some reason the border control was easy and much nicer than it had been on previous visits. I would like to add that in the long queue were burka-clad Saudis with their little eyes peeping out and crazy men in white sheets with long beards shouting at me in Urdu; for a country that persecutes Muslims, the US seems to attract quite a few of them. After another few hours we were in Greenwich, Connectitut, the kind of suburban area where every second house is missing.

Looking back on this post, I see I'm already writing like a gossip columnist in the New York Post. All before my journalism course has even started...this place is great.

Freedom fries and a visa, please

2006-08-06T11:47:00.000-04:00