Author Archives: Emdashes

R.I.P.

A sad story about the violent death of Ismael Kurkculer, a former Algonquin Hotel waiter who was killed in Jersey City on Thursday by someone the police suspect he may have known.

For more than five years Kurkculer, a Turkish national, worked as a waiter at Manhattan’s famed upscale, 174-room Algonquin Hotel, on 44th Street between Fifth and Sixth avenues. A hotel manager at the Algonquin notified staff of Kurkculer’s death on Thursday night.

“Everybody is shocked,” said one of Kurkculer’s fellow waiters who declined to provide his name.

“He was one of the nicest guys there are,” the employee said, standing outside of the century-old hotel yesterday.

The waiter said Kurkculer was “one of the best” waiters at the Algonquin and was known for his politeness toward guests.

“He was so quiet, so professional, always talking nice. For that kind of person to have an enemy, I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head as his voice trailed off.

DeFazio said a manager at the hotel got a shock when he called Kurkculer’s apartment on Thursday to see check on his employee, only to have a county homicide investigator answer the phone.

“The Algonquin manager called (Kurkculer’s) apartment Thursday afternoon out of concern because he received a call from a Jersey Journal reporter about the victim,” DeFazio said.

Yesterday a hotel representative declined comment, citing company policy.

Broken beer bottle was weapon in Jersey City bedroom stabbing [Jersey Journal]

And while we’re giving peace a chance

Here’s a photo from Russia—a tank from the Kursk battlefield, which I visited last month, and a bird that was hopping in and out of it. Most of the other photos (all taken with throwaway cameras, hence thumb cameos) are up on Flickr too; I’ll be posting them here from time to time. Dig the ad for the Moscow “retro-style” restaurant whose decor “creates the atmosphere of the Soviet era 1970s.”

Kursk bird

The strangest dream

Glad to to see that Sasha Frere-Jones is a Pete Seeger fan. Since Seeger’s on my all-star list, here’s a tribute for the great man’s 86th birthday by Studs Terkel, who’s also on that list. “Hail Pete, at 86, still the boy with that touch of hope in the midst of bleakness. There ain’t no one like him.” Thanks for the link, SFJ! I’m also struck by Terkel’s rhetorical question “How could there be labor rallies without songs? It was in the true American tradition.” I wondered this myself after hearing Seeger on an NPR retrospective, and going to a sunny and meandering anti-nuke rally in Central Park soon afterward. Chants get old really quickly, and so does rhetoric. Music is the definition of unity; it might help lift current protesters from our general crestfallenness if we sang, not just new songs but what Seeger already taught us. Totally old-fashioned, true. But it’s been known to work.

(5.16.05 issue) On Diffee’s vision, Scranton begs to differ

First talented cartoonist Matthew Diffee’s photo is posted on the information superhighway, and now the city of Scranton is mad at him for this cartoon (“Scranton the Ride”):

That bastion of literary excellence and urbane sophistication, The New Yorker magazine, has picked a fight with down-to-earth Scranton.

Yes, it’s true. Scranton has suffered yet another pop culture rebuke, this time at the hands of one of the most respected magazines in America. In The New Yorker‘s May 16 issue, Matthew Diffee, one of the magazine’s stable of freelance “gag” cartoonists, made the city the unflattering focus of a single-panel strip.

Turn to page 79 and you’ll find the cartoon in the top right corner — a neatly drawn sketch of a futuristic-looking mechanical contraption sitting next to a sign that blares, “Scranton The Ride.” Beneath that, in smaller type, reads: “Experience the sights, sounds, and smells of Scranton.”

Then, underneath that, the punchline: “Warning: May cause nausea.”

Get it? The gist seems to be that those who visit Scranton run the risk of becoming violently ill.

Right, Mr. Diffee?

Reached Friday at his home in Brooklyn, Mr. Diffee remained coy with the cartoon’s full intent, saying it was “open to interpretation.” However, he admitted it was “unfair” of him to make Scranton “an object of ridicule.”

Mr. Diffee was initially inspired to do the cartoon when he took the “Ride the Big Apple” virtual reality ride at the Empire State Building.

“It made me a bit queasy, as these things tend to do,” he said.

He figured the ride would be perfect fodder for parody. However, because of The New Yorker‘s somewhat “honey-tinted vision” of the Big Apple, he’d have to pick another place to make fun of.

First, he thought New Jersey. But that seemed “too overdone.”

Then he landed on Scranton, which he’s never actually set foot in, but once drove through while traveling on Interstate 81 a few years back.

During that trip, he got stuck in traffic, caught a view of a landfill and saw several deer carcasses on the side of the road.

“I suppose through that I developed a slightly negative impression of the place,” said Mr. Diffee, a native of Denton, Texas. “All those things together made me unfairly target Scranton.”

Besides his one and only Scranton experience, Mr. Diffee said he was partially inspired by the name itself.

“It’s just a funny-sounding name,” he said. “Say it to the side of your mouth, it will make you giggle.”

The cartoon has elicited interesting responses from locals who’ve seen it.

Friends of Greater Scranton Chamber of Commerce president Austin Burke inundated him with copies of the cartoon in the days following its publication.

“Generally speaking,” said Mr. Burke, who subscribes to the magazine, “the cartoons in The New Yorker are wonderful.”

“I kind of missed the point on this one. I do think they were trying to be derogatory,” he said. “It’s totally appropriate for them to be snobbish, but I’d rather them not to be mean.”

Monsignor Joseph G. Quinn responded with a chuckle of disbelief upon seeing the cartoon.

“Don’t you wonder what prompts such cartoons and such timing?” Monsignor Quinn asked, noting how unfortunate it is to see Scranton portrayed in a negative light given all the positive strides he believes the city has made in recent years.

Still, Mr. Burke was able to put some positive spin on the dig, citing an old axiom that any publicity is good publicity so long as “they keep spelling your name right.”

Monsignor Quinn, meanwhile, managed to come up with a witty retort of his own.

“On the upside, we’re no longer being portrayed as a coal mining community, but rather at least in the spaceship motif. So, maybe we are making progress,” he quipped, before imploring Mr. Diffee to check out the city for himself.

To his credit, Mr. Diffee said he’d be happy to visit Scranton at some point. In the meantime, he thinks Scranton will survive the insult just fine.

“I get the feeling Scranton can take it,” he said. “It seems like a tough town.”

Nice phrase, “honey-tinted vision”; it reminds me of that Salon piece about the magazine’s still-limited view of the city, which I’ll go back and link to soon. I think Josh McAuliffe, the Scranton Times Tribune writer, is just a tiny bit mean himself to refer to anyone as a mere trick Clydesdale in a “stable of freelance ‘gag’ cartoonists.” And I’m not at all sure what Monsignor Quinn means by “such timing.” In any case, do as Diffee suggests and say “Scranton” out of the side of your mouth a couple of times. It sounds like Bogie telling off a paperboy. Even the Scrantonians would giggle.

New Yorker cartoonist takes jab at city in recent issue [Scranton Times Tribune]

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Who put the ram in the ramalama ham-jam?

Matt Diffee at the Rejection Show.

Here’s New Yorker cartoonist Matthew Diffee with one of his inexplicably rejected cartoons, from last week’s supercalifragilistic Rejection Show (which Diffee co-founded, along with cheerfully deadpan host Jon Friedman). I strongly suggest you go next month—I laughed very, very, very much. I also saw drawings by aforementioned nice guy Eric Lewis and their genial colleague Drew Dernavich, and just about every cartoon was wicked funny (if I said every cartoon was, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?). Thanks to Tim Siglin for the excellent photo! Click on it to travel to the land of Flickr and see it at a proper size. Here’s another good one—of Friedman pimping Combino the terrifying new Rejection Show mascot, with whom I would be afraid to slow-dance even for a prize, but a brave fellow held him close for nigh upon three minutes. He’s a better man than I.

Rejection Show host Jon Friedman and Combino

Also representing graceful non-success were the hilariously bitter Mike Albo of Underminer fame—who read the most absurd dump email from a three-night stand I’ve ever heard—and Andrea Rosen, who is always awesome, and who got rejected from the reality show she created and had to suffer the further indignity of seeing her then-boyfriend, a bartender at Galapagos, be made producer. Anne Altman’s cat-toilet-training documentary, not schadenfreudistic enough for America’s Funniest Home Videos, prompted something wildly pre-human in all of us, and that was good. I also dug, and ogled, handsome devil Nick Stevens, who almost became the new Marv Albert (without the little problems) via ESPN’s Dream Job. Unfortunately, he drove all the judges out of their minds without intending to, since ESPN insisted on running a promo twenty times a day featuring Nick crowing “Ramalama ham-jam!” It got on their nerves, for some reason. But he triumphed anyway, by telling the story so excellently. Really, it’s an evening that can’t miss. The best part is that you feel so supremely exultant in non-rejectedness, since there’s nothing like being part of a giddy, laughing crowd to realize you’re the successes and those visionless suits (and hipster bartenders) are the losers.

All right, Wilseyists, I promised, and I try not break promises, especially to you. Here’s Sean Wilsey’s book tour schedule. Just promise me in return that you won’t creep him out with any excessive stalking, OK? Gifts of whimsically packaged Jelly Bellys, good; lurking in his shrubbery paparazzi-style, bad. Jot this down on a notecard if you’re afraid you might mix them up.

For this show, ‘Rejection’ leads to success [Daily News]
Cartoonist speaks about modern life through quirky drawings [Nice profile of Matthew Diffee and his cartooning process and also the NYer’s rejection process, Fort Worth Star-Telegram]

For madeleine, substitute Nutella

I’m honored to be Normblog’s Friday profile today. This is a good place to develop your dossier about me. I tried to keep my answers shortish so Norm wouldn’t have to cross the Atlantic to pelt me with old scones, so there were people I ended up leaving off my lists of intellectual and cultural heroes (particularly the latter). They keep coming back to me, like one of those recurring dreams that you didn’t turn in that 15-page undergraduate paper about Kim Novak as auteur—oh wait, that’s true. Tim Clinton, I put you on my list of intellectual heroes because you taught me so much about film, and I swear I’ll finish it if you’ll let me.

(5.23.05 issue) Forget the Gawker/Radar brawl

Fun as it’s been, even the pie was nothing compared to the churning outrage over Anthony Lane’s review of Star Wars—Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. In brief, he doesn’t care for it. Yoda should be ground up in a blender. Natalie Portman’s football helmet makes no sense. “Nobody ingests or excretes. Language remains unblue.” (Not so Lane’s, which I found rather jarring.) The film “is a zoo of rampant storyboards.” Others disagree, however, so Anakins are gonna roll:

Everyone’s talking about Anthony Lane’s review of Revenge of the Sith in this week’s New Yorker. With its mix of death-defying vivisectional logic (“how Padmé got pregnant is anybody’s guess, although I’m prepared to wager that it involved Anakin nipping into a broom closet with a warm glass jar and a copy of Ewok Babes“), and low-blow stand-up comedy (“Sith. What kind of a word is that? … It sounds to me like the noise that emerges when you block one nostril and blow through the other”), this is the battlecry we’ve been waiting for…. Jump into the controversy! (Ewok Babes is just crying out for an Andrew Hearst cover.)

By the way, emdashers, it’s come to my attention (through studying my own RSS feed, after a pleasant email exchange with Renaissance man Matt Shobe of both FeedBurner and a recent cartoon caption contest) that my—horrors!—em dashes don’t always come through as such, but as alphanumerical soup. Please, for the love of all that is typographical, tell me if your browser or feed can’t read a character I’ve used. I know you have the same gentle forgiving nature as me (OK, me on a good day), so it’s hard for you to bring yourself to criticize, but it’s so much worse not to know. Think of bad HTML as spinach in my teeth, and tell me as a friend. That’s what the email link is for. And although I say this on my profile (thataway==>), it’s worth repeating for the skittery-jittery types among you that I never, ever quote anything without permission. Letters are private; interviews are interviews. I may not have gone to j-school (if I had, I’d be in even more debt than I already am from p-school), but I know how to mind my t’s and k’s.

Tomorrow: some pain-easing methadone for all of you Sean Wilsey addicts, who need more and more about him every day to calm the shakes. I understand, and I’m here to help.

Space Case [Anthony Lane, New Yorker]
Anthony Lane and the Sith Backlash [Cinematical]
Top 99 Actual Star Wars Lines You Might Hear In A Porno [Keepers of Lists, via Cinematical. Why do men say “porno” and women say “porn movie”? Take-home exam is due in 48 hours under my office door.]
Metaphysics of a Magazine [NY Observer on Radar, as fresh out of the oven as Kogepan!]

Cartoon Caption Contest: Breakfast of Champions

From introspective Dr. Mouse contest winner Roy Futterman (“More important, however, is what I learned about myself”):

I’m not the Criticas magazine guy. I’m some psychologist guy. The only other notice I’ve gotten is some old lady who took the time to find my home address and write to me to tell me that I’m not funny. That’s the first “the price of fame” chapter of my future E! True Hollywood Story.

When asked for his caption-contest wisdom, Roy humbly demurred: “You should just let the world know that if they become finalists, they will get insulting email from the elderly.”

I can’t think of a better reason to enter. This week, there’s a drawing of a surfboard executive with your name on it. The New Yorker cartoonists are even psyched about having their work in the spotlight—this according to the sweet Eric Lewis, who has a cartoon in the magazine this week, makes incredible sculptures, and who was kind enough to let me ask him a millon questions last night. Well, psyched except for the (non-present) artist who reportedly quipped, “Hey, let’s ask David Remnick if we can have a contest where readers can write in the last paragraph of his article!” You knew it wasn’t all unicorns in the garden over there all the time, didn’t you? Be all you can be—vote for Jennifer Cain’s roaming minutes, give Vice President Jeff Spicoli something to say, and wait for the abusive snail mail to start pouring in. From the little old lady in Dubuque, most likely.

***

Other Emdashes caption-contest interviews:

  • Robert Gray, winner #106 (“Have you considered writing this story in the third monkey rather than the first monkey?”)
  • David Kempler, winner #100 (“Don’t tell Noah about the vasectomy.”)
  • David Wilkner, winner #99 (“I’d like to get your arrow count down.”)
  • Carl Gable, winner #40 (“Hmm. What rhymes with layoffs?”)
  • T.C. Boyle, winner #29 (“And in this section it appears that you have not only alienated voters but actually infected them, too.”)
  • Adam Szymkowicz (“Shut up, Bob, everyone knows your parrot’s a clip-on”), winner #27, and cartoonist Drew Dernavich interview each other in three parts: One, Clip-On Parrots and Doppelgangers; Two, Adam and Drew, Pt. Two; Three, Clip-On Parrots’ Revenge
  • Evan Butterfield, winner #15 (“Well, it’s a lovely gesture, but I still think we should start seeing other people.”)
  • Jan Richardson, winner #8 (“He’s the cutest little thing, and when you get tired of him you just flush him down the toilet.”)

Why I write a blog on The New Yorker and you don’t

Because I, a person so concerned with the suffering of others that I routinely save spiders and flies from the certain death or, at the very least, reduced standard of living that would result from their being trapped indoors, cannot bear to think of you experiencing the gooberosity that I have begun, masochistically, to invite into my otherwise socially fruitful life by waltzing into various tangentially magazine-related scenarios (like this one), declaring myself a New Yorker bloggist, and turning into a media-circus freak before my very eyes. Trust me, you don’t want the agony. I’ll bear it for you, as though it were a hairshirt made of itchy pencils and tiny, biting Gopniks. You can have faith that when next you think of me, I’ll be writhing in a bar somewhere attempting to speak full English sentences to people who, before this mad experiment, would not have reduced me to gibberish. Reporting is pain, by Jove, and I want more of it!