My second day at Darul Hijrah, Mi’raj tells me that there will be a big “agenda” tonight, and the students would be very happy if I were to attend. The evening’s line-up would include skits, singing, dancing, a little comedy. It was to be the big annual show put on by class 6, the graduating class, and it would be attended by teachers, parents, local villagers and the girls from Darul Hijrah Putri, four kilometers away.
Mi’raj, knowing that I could play guitar, invited me to play and sing “Munajat Cinta,” one of the Indopop songs I learned in bahasa class, along with Emmy, the ETA at Putri. Well, why not? But, I told him, I would need to practice the chords first.
I arrive at New York City’s Penn Station after a 47-minute train ride on the Bergen County Main Line from my home town of Ridgewood, a large New Jersey town which maintains the designation of a village. Here beneath Madison Square Garden, my spine tingles as I think of the infinite opportunities the night holds.
This is the place where the bars served me at sixteen, a place where the constant smell of hotdogs and sewage is strangely appetizing and a place where a man having a discussion with a cardboard box on the sidewalk is easily ignored.
Monday, Oct. 20: 3:03 p.m.
I slept until 12:30 this afternoon, only to promptly roll out of bed and apply self-tanner. Josh thinks it smells like a skunk blew up in my room. I think I smell like victory. This will be a week to remember, that’s for damn sure.
I used to compete pretty often growing up. I won, I lost, I got first runner up more times than I care to remember, and spent a shit-ton of money doing it. I haven’t competed in over three years. The last time was at Miss America’s Outstanding Teen. I represented Vermont at the inaugural pageant in Orlando, Fla. This is one of those times where I was probably close to last place. Whatevs. It was fun…sort of. The 15-hour days weren’t so fun, but knowing that I was part of pageant history made it worth it. Now I need to get off my ass and go pick up my photo from the Print Shop…
The world around us has changed beyond recognition - note penciled on first page of used book found at thrift shop
On Wednesday, October 29, 2008, The New York Times effectively printed its own obituary. In seven different news stories and an inadvertently insightful video game review, the Times basically said that newspapers and possibly some magazines are doomed, and offered additional bad news for books.
“Doomed” is my phraseology, not theirs, but if you connect the dots, the message is there. Spread throughout the paper – and taking up all of page B8 – were stories of the industries’ problems.