WRITING CULTURE 2012: Film, Food & Beyond

Sunday Morning we began making calls again. The DHH gave me the name of the same nursing home in Carnarsie. I called and they said he was not there but at a different building a few blocks away where they have adult-day programs. They transferred me and the receptionist said he wasn’t there, but she would check to see if he was at the shelter in basement. He was there.
Minutes after speaking with the DHH a nurse called to tell me where my father was, what a coincidence.
When I heard the word “shelter” images from Katrina flashed before my eyes and I wanted to get him out of there. I planned to take him from the shelter to the respite center but when I arrived, I was surprised how pleasant the place was.
A receptionist walked me past the dining room full of adorable seniors slow-dancing to live music. This was one of the fanciest adult centers I have seen. Most are non-profits that have to fight for the small amount of funding they receive every year.
When he saw me he shot straight up in his chair, his eyes got huge. He can’t talk but he laughs. His eyes and his mouth were wide open. I gave him a big hug and he just stared at me, he speaks with his eyes. He always was a nice guy but this illness has made him less inhibited, and more of what he already was.
A lot of people say their dad is the best, but mine really is. The nurses always say he is their favorite resident. Most likely they say that to everyone, but he really is that sweet and lovable so I believe them.
Since he has been in a nursing home he has had countless girlfriends. He loves music, especially country and a beautiful ballad could bring him to tears. He often hums along hitting all the high notes. His memory isn’t what it used to be, but he remembers songs like a living jukebox.
Two caregivers from his nursing home were there and I asked what happened. One woman said the water on the first floor came up to her chest and that the ocean and the bay overflowed and became one body of water. The entire Rockaway peninsula was underwater. The first-floor generators failed because they were submerged. She covered her mouth with her hand and eyes filled with tears when she told me she is living in a shelter with her family. She is taking care of people in a shelter and living in a shelter. I’ve watched these women take care of my father for two years and I want to help them but I don’t know what I can do. The nurses believe everyone will be going back to Rockaway next week when they get the power back.
I had planned to take my father with me and asked about discharging him. I spoke to the manager from the nursing home and she said they did try to call me but couldn’t get through. The week of the storm, my cell phone service was terrible. I’m sure they tried to call. He was taken to Brooklyn Tech, never John Adams. If I chose to discharge him I would have to wait until Tuesday to get approval and new prescriptions. There is a risk that if I take him out, they may not take him back.
Nursing homes don’t want people like my father because he is too young and active, and has dementia. Most are at full capacity and have an evaluation process before they accept a new resident. Two previous nursing homes sent him to the emergency room in an ambulance and made it clear they did not want him back. Once he was so over medicated he had to be placed on a breathing machine. This is the first place where he has had no issues and is well cared for. I decided it wasn’t worth the risk of moving him.
No one could have anticipated how devastating Sandy would be and I’m glad everyone from his residence is safe. I still believe the city did an excellent job considering the circumstances.
I just wish my father could tell me what happened.

This was supposed to be a love story about how proud I am of New York City in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, but as days go by, the devastation continues to grow.
New York City has faced horrific tragedies in the past, but Sandy has affected so many people directly in inconceivable ways, everyone feels it. Sandy continues to claim more victims like struggling businesses, the New York City Marathon and Halloween. People have lost power, homes, income and in some cases even loved ones.

I was in midtown Manhattan when Sandy hit so I thought I escaped unscathed, and reveled in my good luck. For me, the preparation and waiting for the storm felt worse than the storm. As folk’s downtown suffered with no power, I enjoyed spending time with friends. I had slumber parties every night with people I hardly see as we were now stuck in my apartment because they didn’t want to go home to the dark.
Like migrant workers we slept in shifts and on air mattresses on the floor. I quickly ran out of towels and empty sockets to charge things. We watched movies, we ate and we waited.
We didn’t know anything. I didn’t know if I had class the next day. We worried if stores would get groceries. I wondered how long everyone would be staying in our apt. I calculated how much income I was losing. It was impossible to think of anything else. We anxiously awaited every press conference or any news that life would be back to normal soon.
I visited the East Village and took photos. Most people evacuated and there were few people on the streets. I knew of people that were the only ones who stayed in their building. Others were afraid to leave their apartment at night, and not only because of the dark.
It was strange to see empty sidewalks and stores closed during the day. A friends East Village railroad apt was completely dark during the day from lack of windows. I struggled to find the toilet in total darkness except for the dim candle burning on the sink.

Sidewalk vendors sold batteries. Somehow pizzerias sold pizza. People stood in line for an hour to buy coffee from a truck. A nail salon was doing candlelight pedicures. The guy with the corner kabob cart praised god for his good fortune.
The usual cab traffic was replaced by bike traffic. There were no traffic lights. No one had seen or heard from the Red Cross or the National Guard. The only sound was the growl of generators and traffic from hundreds of workers heading to the sight of the Con-Ed explosion. It was still daylight, but the East Village was dark and desolate.
I had seen enough and wanted to go home before it was any later, or darker. I stood with a group of about 30 people and waited and waited as overcrowded buses passed us by. It was completely dark by the time I squeezed onto a bus. If not for headlights there would have been no light at all. As the bus passed 34th St it was incredible to go from eerie darkness to bright lights.
Somehow through this, I felt a sense of strength in the powerless East Village. People were calm. They seemed to shrug and just go about their business of finding food or finding a place to plug in their phone. They sat quietly in coffee shops, plugged into power strips and staring at tiny screens. I thought soon enough the light would return and life would go back to normal.
On Friday night, my friends had power again and went home. Their suffering was done, but my mine had only begin.
The news was now paying more attention to Far Rockaway. I developed a relationship with the area since I moved my 67 year-old father to a nursing home one block from the boardwalk. Over the summer I loved making day trips to visit my dad and walk on the boardwalk wishing he could be there on the beach with me. At age 62, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and after two years taking care of him, I realized he needed more care than I alone could provide.
Before Sandy, the nursing home called me to let me know that they were not evacuating. They reassured me they were well-prepared, as they were last year for Hurricane Irene. The residents are on high floors and the facility has their own generators. I trusted their judgment.
In the days that followed, I heard nothing. There still is no phone or electric service in Far Rockaway. I figured he was fine and they just couldn’t call me for some reason or if something happened they would have called me. They call me when he stubs a toe, so I assumed that he was ok and in a day or two trains and phone service would be restored, or I could get over to see him.
I worried more every day. I didn’t recognize the Far Rockaway I saw on the news. The nor’easter was coming and I heard rumors nursing homes were evacuating. I started making phone calls. One place would give me the number for another and when I called they would tell me to call the first place that I had just called, if any one answered the phone at all.
A friend I met while caring for my dad manages a nursing home and she said they would not take him to a shelter in his condition and they should have his information somewhere accessible. She said no matter what, they should have called me, but they didnt.
A story in the Huffington Post said it was the city that gave five nursing homes in zone A in FarRockaway orders not to evacuate. On Saturday, The New York Times ran a similar story about nursing homes in FarRockaway.
The only resource I had to call was 311. No one answered anyplace they told me to call I. I was told you just have to keep calling and that sometimes you have to call a hundred times before someone answerers, no one did.
On Saturday, I finally got answers from the evacuation centers. They said everyone was gone but they didn’t know where they had gone. They told me to contact the Department of Health and Hygiene (DHH) and they would be able to tell me where my father is.
After several dropped calls and getting disconnected, I finally got someone on the phone. At this point, they don’t even ask for his name, just where he was evacuated from. They told me he is in a high school in Ozone Park. I was shocked, a high school. I start calling anyone I knew with a car that could take me there.
My dad has dementia but is relatively strong and healthy, but the faces of others on his floor flashed through my mind. I can’t see them lasting long in an environment outside a medical facility. I called my friend from the Ridgewood/Bushwick Senior Center to ask if she knew of anyplace he can stay after I picked him up. More calls back and forth trying to find a place with a “bed.” Unfortunately, many elderly people have been displaced, she is in crisis mode, yet somehow she finds a bed for my dad. Great! All I have to do is get to Ozone Park.
A friend will take me there since this is an emergency, but he is concerned about getting more gas. So to save gas I ride my bike to Brooklyn. Pedaling down Second Ave, through traffic on Bowery and up and over the Williamsburg Bridge the damp cold air stings my lungs, but I’m elated. I finally found him and have a safe place for him to go. I can’t wait to see him freshly showered, in his jammies and tucked into a cozy bed. My father can no longer speak. He wears diapers and eats liquefied food. I know he recognizes me and understands some of what I say, but he would not understand a crisis situation. I hate to think what he’s been through and just want to see him comfortable and safe.
I coast down the bridge full-speed and at the end I toss my bike in the back of the waiting van. I curse the open draw-bridge on Metropolitan Ave for slowing us down. We pass long gas lines that cause even more traffic. We’re almost there and I move the passenger seat back so he has more room. I can’t wait to see him and the look on his face when he sees me.
We arrive at the John Adams High School on Rockaway Blvd and all the gates are locked. I walk around the entire building looking for signs or some other entrance. Nothing.
I start asking people on the street as I dial DHH again. Someone tells me the evacuees are gone but to try the Red Cross tent-city a few blocks closer to Far Rockaway.
The closer we get to the water the worst it gets. Fallen trees, missing roofs and piles of debris line the street. It’s unimaginable what the storm must have felt like in Far Rockaway if Ozone Park looks this bad over a week later.
At a casino parking lot on Rockaway Parkway you can’t miss the Red Cross. There are dozens of police vehicles, tracker-trailers, and tents with kitchens inside of them. Moving vans have Red Crosses taped to them. The last thing on my mind was taking pictures but I wish I did because I never seen anything like it, and hope I never will again.
A police officer stops us and I tell her I’m desperately searching for my father. She says she hasn’t heard anything about evacuees but sees I’m not leaving until I speak to someone. She brings over a supervisor from the Red Cross. I tell him what happened and seeing the tears in my eyes, he hands me a bottle of water. He tells me to call evacuation centers I already called and no one knows anything. As a final attempt to help, he gives me the cellphone number of another Red Cross worker, who gives me the number to the DHH. At least I got some water.
At this point, both of our cellphones are almost dead. I text on one and make calls on the other. A smart phone isn’t very smart when you’re on hold for the Red Cross and your battery is dying. I make a mental note to buy a military issue cellphone, a wind up USB charger with a radio and a tracking device to attach to my dad.
I speak to the cop again and she tells me to call the precinct if I can’t find him, which I do. The precinct says the evacuation centers are closed and the patients from nursing homes were sent someplace else, but the police department keeps no records of where people are sent.
My friend wants to go home. We don’t know where else to go. The streets are clogged with emergency vehicles and we start to drive back toward Brooklyn. I would drive around to each possible place, but it’s not my car, and we can’t get gas.
How can this happen? I call 311 again, I call the DHH again. The DHH takes my name, my father’s name and actually returns my call. I’m shocked when they say they located him and he is in a nursing home back on Rockaway Blvd. I call immediately and they tell me he is not there but they know the place where he definitely is. I call the next place and they tell me he is not there but to call another place where he must be, he’s not there.
I call DHH again, but now their office is closed. I call 311 again and they tell me to wait until tomorrow or file a missing person report. There is nothing they can do. Defeated, I take my bike home on the subway. I’m too tired to ride.
I think about Sandy’s aftermath and its consequences. My business is out of business because of the gas situation. I’m behind on homework. I just wasted an entire day for nothing. I don’t understand how this could happen. I hope I find him tomorrow, if DHH is open tomorrow, or Monday.
As I write this post, I watch the phone and twitter. Other people’s dads are missing too. Check out @rockawayhelp on Twitter
If this “post” wasn’t already 2000 words long I would go on to rant about how the government neglects seniors or what we can do to better prepare for disasters, or how to stop global warming but honestly I’m tired.
I can think of many examples of how awesome New York City handled Hurricane Sandy but this is not one of them, nor is this the post I planned to write.
So many have suffered and lost so much more than me. I feel my rant is just whining and complaining but it’s not about me, it’s about someone I am responsible for and am helpless to help.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/31/rockaway-beach-nursing-homes_n_2051580.html

Still having an issue with the photo sizes, will upload when I can

Bamiyan Afghani Restaurant satisfies the desire for an exotic experience but unlike some restaurants that manage to provide a festive atmosphere without sacrificing the quality of dining fare, Bamiyan does not.

As a result of war, the mention of Afghanistan conjures images of poppy fields, political unrest, violence and death – not of a delicious exotic cuisine. These are powerful images to push aside prior to a dining experience. Reluctantly, I set out with a group of colleagues to Bamiyan at 358 Third Avenue. Immediately upon entering, the city’s grayness was replaced with bright pink walls and maroon velvet draperies. We were seated immediately by our friendly waitress at table by a wall of windows. Decorative ceramic tiles, small statues, artwork and soft music transported us to faraway lands.

We were the only diners at the time, but at night Bimiyan accommodates large parties and tables socialize with one another. This is a far cry from my prior apprehension that our table would end up discussing world politics.

Afghan cuisine is a fusion of ancient dishes influenced by the multi-cultural major cities such as Kabul. It reminds me of a mixture of Moroccan and Indian dishes. Exotic spices, mint, coriander, saffron, cilantro and cardamom are ground directly onto braised meats (kebabs) or cooked into stews and casseroles. similarites are all over the table. Bread (Naan) is similar to Indian breads and yogurt and sour cottage cheese made from sheep or goats’ milk. Nuts and dried fruit find their way into the rich sauces much like Indian and Moroccan dishes.

My favorite part of the meal was an appetizer, Fesenjan ($7.95), tender pieces of chicken cooked with walnuts and pomegranate juice. This dish is difficult to describe since I have never tasted anything like it. The Fesenjan was served with flakey homemade bread which we completely devoured.

My main entrée was Quorma Baunjaun with Lamb ($16.95), too-small pieces of lamb with stewed eggplant, onions and tomatoes buried deep in a creamy spiced yogurt sauce. Both dishes were tasty but disappointing in the ratio of meat to sauce. We each were served a huge plate of white rice with our entrees which we covered with the overflowing sauces.

I found the Bareh (lamb kabobs $16.95) a bit dry but I enjoyed a pasta dish with meat called Asheh Gooshti ($11.95). It was sweet and tangy but the pasta was overcooked, and again the dish was swimming in sauce. My waning enthusiasm was restored by the yummy coconut cream coffee ($3.50) I had instead of dessert.

Bamiyan provides a memorable dining room to enjoy unexceptional food.

On election night I sat in a Thai food restaurant in the East Village stressing over not seeing election results live. I heard Mitt Romney was ahead and complaints about people having difficulty voting. Over my tofu satay, I began planning which country I would move to tomorrow.
The gentleman at this next table overheard our conversation and couldn’t help but laugh at American politics and encouraged me to seriously consider his country of Switzerland as an option if I really do decide to leave.
In 2008, I didn’t have Facebook but tonight I checked it constantly on my phone. I read news and comments from friends and expressed my disbelief that the election was even close.
When I made it home, I excitedly turned on MSNBC and was bored. I almost fell asleep listening to the dry repetitive commentary so I logged on to Facebook and Twitter and the fun began.
I was immediately connected with news sources and friends from around the country and could chime in whenever I felt the need. Maybe I’m just not a TV person and prefer interacting rather than watching.
As with Hurricane Sandy, I found more useful and relevant information on Facebook than from the mainstream media. During the hurricane I knew immediately when power went out in the East Village, information and pictures were shared instantly. Even relief efforts were rapidly organized through social media.
I can’t wait to read all the stories in The New York Times tomorrow but for election night coverage I’d like to thank Facebook and Twitter for being fast, fun and allowing me to state my opinion.

Today I had Sun Chips for breakfast. Sun Chips are a few ingredients removed from Doritos, and that is not good. Calling them “Harvest Cheddar” flavor was an insult to cheddar. They tasted nothing like chesse.
The brightly colored bag crunched loudly every time I reached for another chip, much like the crunching sound coming from my mouth. These man-made grainy, salt-chips made my fingers and tongue orange. I immediately wished I bought a bottle of water to rinse the after taste from my lips. I also forgot my water bottle. Fragments of Sun Chips were pasted to my molars to remind me of the poor choice I made.
The small bag contained about 15 chips and a whopping 200 calories, yet I was still hungry. They were 20% sodium and devoid of any nutritional value. I realize it’s not practical to have sliced apples with peanut butter or hot oatmeal in a vending machine, but Sun Chips for breakfast has to be the worst breakfast ever! What was I thinking?
Maybe next week, I will learn from my mistakes and wake up earlier. Then I could make a delicious frozen-fruit smoothie with almond milk and vegetable protein while leisurely scrolling the news. Unfortunately, my class on Thursday is too early for me and I often miss breakfast rushing to class.

Despised by children and often adults, they are gratuitously given a small spot on the dinner plate. They are often boiled beyond recognition or drowned in butter or unnecessary fatty sauces.   Vegetables are simply the best. They are my favorite food and deserve to be in the center of every plate.

Hot, cold, raw, steamed or juiced, the flavors, textures, colors and varieties are endless. I try to eat as many different vegetables as possible, not only are they delicious and low in fat and calories, but they also are the most nutrient dense foods you can eat.  I love watching them grow from the ground and change colors as they ripen, and there is no way I can resist a farmers market.

Asparagus, arugula, brussels sprouts, collard greens, okra, radishes and spinach are just a few of my favorites. I’m amazed every time I find new varieties or new ways to eat them.  Whether they are in salads, entrees or soups I can’t get enough of them.

 

After Detroit lost half of its manufacturing jobs to outsourcing, the city lost half of its residents. The documentary Destropia is beautifully filmed scenes of the devastating decay.

Directors and residents, Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady show what is left through the eyes of those who remain. In 1930 Detroit was the fastest growing city in America. The middle-class prospered in Detroit, as did the rest of the America. As we follow the engaging and somehow hopeful residents they boast of the cities success and fear for their future, as well as the future of the country.
Building are destroyed, more jobs are lost. Demolition and scrap recycling are the only growth opportunities in town. The cast are emotional and entertaining. A small restaurant owner (Tommy Stevens) holds on to his business hoping the plant will hire back workers, and the proud Cadillac driving union boss (George McGregor) fights to save the jobs of the few workers left behind in the world of globalization. A young blogger (Crystal Starr) who tries to see her future in Detroit while reveling in the past. A Young (possibly foolish) couple looking for a cheap place to create offers minimal hope to offset the dismal decline.
Many viewers come into this film aware of Detroit issues, but seeing them up close and personal is almost painful to watch. The frustration of the residents and even the Mayor is contagious. The overarching message is; let this city be a warning and your city will be next. This film will leave you aware, but with more fear than hope. There are no easy answers in Detropia and none are offered.

American Juggalo by director Sean Dunne gives a shocking and entertaining look at the life of a “Juggalo.”
But what is a “Juggalo?” According to Wikipedia, the FBI classified Juggalos as a “loosely organized gang,” with a small segment that commits violent or drug related crimes. The name Juggalo originated with the band “Insane Clown Posse” as a name to describe their fans. Female Juggalos are called “Juggalettes.”
The short-film takes place at the annual “Gathering of the Juggalos.” Inspired by “Insane Clown Posse” the music festival features acts from the Posse’s record label and various other forms of “entertainment”.
Members of the Juggalo “family” describe themselves and their lifestyle in their own profanity laced vocabulary.
As you will see, Juggalos come in all shapes, sizes, ethnicities and stages of motherhood. Often riddled with piercings and tattoos, one of their proudest characteristics is that despite the violent lyrics, they love everyone. A Juggalette who calls herself “Maniac” most elegantly described Juggalos as a puzzle where everyone is a piece of the picture.
Although there are some “straight-edge” members, drug use, drinking, nudity and erratic behavior are completely acceptable and highly encouraged. After seeing this film the viewer must decide if Juggalos are misfits, criminals, or as one Juggalette calls it; just into “really weird-shit.”

Movies are made to entertain and allow people to escape into another world of adventure, fantasy, horror or laughter. But these are not the movies that I most enjoy.

Sitting through a ridiculous, romantic comedy would make me cringe more than the bloodiest slasher film. Movies with high tech graphics and people blowing things up just put me to sleep. Much to my boyfriend’s disappointment, I would rather watch a documentary.

I just love DOC’s that are beautifully filmed in other countries or especially in another time.  Watching a movie like  Frida gives you a glimpse not only into her life, but life in her time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zudfarZ-ZNk

Although I find history fascinating, I would never sit and read a history book voluntarily.  A movie like “The Weather Underground” not only tells you the story but also captures the culture and political environment at the time.  Rather than reading a whole book, you can really learn a lot in an hour or two just by watching a movie!

Most importantly, DOC’s can change people’s perspective and maybe even their life. They can shed light on issues the viewer may not have been aware of, or even been interested in before seeing the film. “The Future of Food” or “Supersize Me” are just two examples of movies that made a lot of people think about what they eat and maybe even changed their life! I have seen stories about people who were inspired and lost hundreds of pounds after watching these movies. I bet they are glad they didn’t watch “Transformers III” that night!

When I see on the news what movies people are watching, I find it shocking and scary.  I don’t understand why anyone would watch a crappy Hollywood blockbuster when they can see something REAL, and watch a documentary.

As I was looking for a story to focus my blog I became overwhelmed, there was just so much coverage. The Times alone had dozens of slideshows, videos and blogs. Its great publications are taking advantage of the technology available and I think reading a newspaper online is more entertaining than watching TV.
My favorite part of the multimedia coverage was the photo slide shows. Photos capture the moment. They have that iconic quality where one photo can really tell the story.
The slideshows I liked best were from the Republican convention. I thought the RNC slideshows really captured who they are. I also loved the Backstage at the Democratic Convention slide show. The black and white photos were beautiful and presidential. There was one photo of President Obama backstage during Mrs. Obama’s speech that I thought was interesting since I was wondering where he was at the exact moment that photo was taken. Now I know.
I don’t believe it’s possible to have too much coverage of politics. It is important to document events like this and for people to have a choice of how they view news but I think the media should be doing more fact checking and bringing complex issues to the public’s attention. Smaller publications like Pro-Publica and RealClear Politics often offer more in depth reporting.
To me, the most important coverage and my favorite part of reading an interactive newspaper are the readers’ comments. In The New York Times readers can vote for their favorite comments, the best comments rise to the top of the list, and you can read peoples opinion on a story from across the globe.
No matter what type of coverage makes The New York Times, I wonder if it a necessary or important. Hasn’t everybody already made up their mind who they are voting for?