Nonsense Verse

What makes a home a home

I have a pole in my apartment. A thickish pole, wrapped in bristly rope, that divides the living room from the short corridor (in New York terms, "office") leading to the bedroom. Various guests have puzzled over the pole's purpose, but in general, guesses have been narrowed to two things: (1) it's a supporting pole, plain and simple, or (2) it's a water pipe, wrapped in rope to protect against injury from fluctuations in temperature.

But these two things are not what I thought of when I first laid eyes on the apartment nearly two years ago. No, what I thought was much simpler, much more ... primal, you might say: Stripper Pole!

My reaction was so organic, in fact, that as soon as I stepped into the apartment, the broker fast behind me, I could not help but run to the pole, grab it, and spin around it in an acrobatic twirl. (I had been with the broker all of an hour, maybe two. But he was a good sport, this broker -- just sort of smiled and giggled and changed the subject to square footage.)

At the end of my apartment search, the choices had been whittled to two. There was the large-ish one-bedroom duplex with a tiny, walled-off kitchen (a minus -- a maker of crudites, canapés and other party treats must be able to socialize with her party guests) but also a deck off the second floor (a plus). And then there was the pole apartment: a large-ish, wide-open, loft-style thing with exposed brick along one long wall and, of course, the pole.

Now, some would argue that the deck should have won the day. A deck for a reasonable price is hard to find in this city. And a space with enough room for private sun-bathing and barbecuing is even scarcer. But you know who cares about sun-bathing room and primo BBQ action? Pale people (which I am not) and carnivores (which I am sometimes, but not vociferously enough to justify taking a particular apartment). And so, the decision, for me, was pretty much a nondecision.

But now, as happens with so many relationships, my love affair with the pole apartment is winding to its close. In a couple of months, I plan to move from my Hells Kitchen lair (it really is a lair, or maybe "cocoon" is a better word -- point being, the apartment doesn't get much light) to the E.V. or L.E.S., land of cheaper restaurants, more abundant bars and cafes, better boutiques and thrifting opportunities, dog runs for big and bitty dogs, and fewer lost tourists with the tendency to ignore the "walk" part of "sidewalk."

Most friends, when they hear of my imminent move, react with a "cool!" But on a recent pool-playing, whiskey-drinking outing, the reaction from one friend, who I will call Cute Overload's No. 1 Fan (aka CO1F), was more like overt disappointment: "No!!! What about THE POLE?!"

Me: "Well, I'm sure there are other apartments with poles."

CO1F: (whimper)

Me: "Seriously, I've seen other buildings with poles. In this neighborhood, too. Like, Grape & Grain has a pole kinda like mine."

CO1F: (whimper)

But fear not, CO1F, for recently, I found the answer to both our woes: the Peekaboo Pole Dancing Kit!

Yes, now you can have your pole -- and take it with you, too!

Broadsheet (subscription required) did a writeup on it, because apparently this thing was being sold in the little-kiddie toy department of the U.K. chain Tesco, and some family-values peeps got their knickers in a bunch. (Tesco is now selling the pole only as a "fitness" item, away from the toddler aisle.)

Now. Before any of my loyal and generous readers get the smart idea to buy and ship me the Peekaboo Pole, let me just say: thanks, but please, no. After all, I may luck out and find that dream apartment in the E.V. complete with exposed brick and hardwood floors and windows that let in daylight and a built-in pole, in which case a Peekaboo will not be required. And even if not, somehow, the Peekaboo strikes me as the kind of product one must really buy on one's own. Kind of like a leather bustier.

And even then, the pole component of my life may have had its day. After all, my commute is about to get longer, I may soon be going back to school, I am totally coveting a puppy -- who has time for pole twirling with all that?

Football: Bad, but not all bad

There are a lot of reasons I don’t like the culture of American football. I don't like the zealotry. I don't like its relegation of women to cheerleader status. I don't like its hypocrisy (good god, it's Janet Jackson's breast -- hide the children! good god, son, it's the commercial with the mud-wrestling bikini chicks! now those are real women!). I don't like its rampant homophobia. I don't like its hijacking of God and country, as in "God is football," and "football is patriotism." I don't like its commandeering of horrible, cataclysmic events (see 9/11, see Katrina) as a vehicle for fanning its fans' passions. I don't like its position in education, the way it so often relegates learning in high school and college to the backseat. And I especially don't like its potent powers of zombification: Since football season started, I haven't been to the gym once without seeing a guy, walking from one apparatus to another, stopped dead in his tracks by game highlights playing on the TV, as if some alien spaceship has trained its beam of light on him and zapped his brain, rendering him helpless. And the guy stands there, eyes glazed, mouth open, practically drooling, watching guys with no necks rehash highlights he no doubt watched already, live, over the weekend, but which he is incapable of turning away from.

Pathetic, I think. What a spectacular waste of brain capacity. And yet…

There are times when I am extremely conflicted about football, because I know what it means to so many people. For many players, it's their one ticket on the express train away from Povertyland, USA. For so many towns (so many families, even), it's the one positive thing they have to rally around. For so many strangers, it's one of the few things to bind them to their neighbors. And let's be frank: Come playoffs and the Super Bowl, it's a damn good excuse to have a blowout party.

I get all that. And so as much as I don't like football, I can't condemn it wholly. Typically I just don't bother watching it, or reading about it, or caring about it. When I do watch I tend to enjoy not so much the play itself, but individual players' occasional moments of honest-to-goodness greatness (not to mention so many of the players' fantastically cartoonish names). And every now and then I'll read something that does make me feel better about the game, despite its many flaws, its posturing, its sanctimoniousness.

The thing that inspired this little rant was actually this article from this past weekend's New York Times Magazine, "The Ballad of Big Mike." It's about a kid who had been abandoned, homeless, unable to read, unable to even comprehend the world around him, and yet who had physical gifts that made him destined to play in the NFL. And it's about the family who took it upon themselves to lift him out of what would have been a destitute existence. And yes, they were born-agains on a mission, and yes, they and their ilk are homophobic as all hell, and yes, if I overheard these people's conversations at a football game I would probably be very, very freaked out. But I can't begrudge them their good deeds, even if I don't agree with the agent behind their benevolence. This family helped change a doomed kid's life. And so did football. In fact, with articles like these (it's a stirring, exciting, heartbreaking and heartwarming article -- do be sure to read it), the kid is already on his way to becoming football legend.