spalevsky's Xanga

Monday, May 21, 2007

Mon, 21 May 2007 07:05:41 GMT

My new blog

I'm officially abandoning Xanga in favor of a way cooler host, Typepad.

My new blog can be found by clicking here. Bookmark it!!

Friday, May 18, 2007

Fri, 18 May 2007 20:49:08 GMT

Cartman and friends

My friend Carol made this for me. It's me if I were a Southpark character.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Tue, 15 May 2007 23:51:10 GMT

Movin' on up

So I'm working on a new blog, and as soon as its ready for consumption I'll post a link to it on this site, and ya'll can read it. It's going to be new and improved, I promise.

In the meantime, I've started a Flickr page and am mildly obsessed with it. You can view my online photo album here. (If the link doesn't work, it's www.flickr.com/photos/staceydebra.

Enjoy. More to come later.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Tue, 17 Apr 2007 05:16:38 GMT

The view from inside my head

1. ENDINGS
I just finished the "History of Love" by Nicole Krauss. What a let down. Totally bullshit ending. I mean, you fall in love with the texture and depth of her characters, you read 200-plus pages, and the conflicts that took that long to build are resolved in like 3 pages, certainly not enough time to satiate a reader's sensibilities.

2. ELITISM
I attended a daylong seminar on international reporting at UC Berkeley on Saturday. Several observations on this event. One, I never want nor do I need a graduate degree in journalism. There's totally an elitist attitude surrounding that grad school program, which while perhaps legitimate, is utterly frustrating, especially because journalists are supposed to be humble and empathetic and graceful listeners for whom preconceived notions evaporate during said listening. Also, I realized upon hearing from these incredible journalists who have reported from Tunisia and Iraq and Uruguay and Mexico and China that what I don't know about journalism can only be learned by doing, not by sitting in a classroom for hundreds of dollars per credit hour.

3. THE WORLD IN MEGAPIXELS AND HTML CODE
International reporting is a very cool thing to learn about from the reporters who've been kicked out of countries or jailed in Libya or snuck across the border from Guatemala to Mexico. It's also interesting because the Internet -- a high-tech creation, no doubt -- has made it possible for people around the world to learn about countries that are underdeveloped, or developing, or in crisis. So much innovation, and so much room to continue to explore how the Internet will help human beings understand their brethren in other hemispheres. I think if the Internet could figure out how to be less schizophrenic (like momentarily you could click on this link, my favorite site I learned of this weekend, and bye-bye blog, hello something else). And then that site will link to something else, and you'll go there, and so on and so forth. It's unfortunately harder to be absorbed by something online, unless it's really mind-blowingly compelling. I think this is a problem. Some people probably love the interactivity of it all. I do, sometimes. But usually I don't.

4. CREAKING FLOORBOARDS
I love it when my roommates aren't home. Love, as in: I am gloriously, radiantly overjoyed when I have the place to myself for an evening. Or two. Yes folks, for two evenings in a row I've had the whole place to myself. This is because Jon's worked last night and tonight, Emilie's out of town, and Jason has been at his girlfriend's. I wish I could have this experience more often (though don't get me wrong, I love my roommates). Last night and tonight I just enjoyed the sounds of the wind and the creakiness of our wood floors. I didn't even play music until I sat down to write this.

5. SOMEONE ELSE
I have a new TV show on which I've almost instantly become hooked. It's called "The Riches" and it's on FX. I read about it, then I told the DVR to record it. I hardly ever watch TV, so if I'm hooked on something, that says a lot about the quality of the show. It's delightfully creepy, funny and irreverent, but also psychologically twisted and entertaining. The concept sounds a bit crazy, but essentially, this white trash family happens upon a fatal car accident, discover the couple were on their way to a new home in a Florida cul de sac and then assume the dead people's lives. Wayne and Dahlia become Charlene and Doug Rich. That was the pilot episode. I think I missed the second episode, but the third, I caught, and it focused a lot on the emotional complications of their new life. Recommended.

6. GUNS
A week and a half ago our street filled with police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and then the dreaded County Coroner's van. We stared out our bay window for like 3 hours, watching, and wondering what crime could have occurred that the victim wasn't rushed to the hospital. The 10 o'clock news told us that a 14-year-old girl had allegedly and accidentally shot herself in the face. Then, today, I learn that 33 people died in the deadliest random shooting spree in U.S. history. Tragic. So so sad. So senseless. That's the worst part, really. There's simply no way to reason or rationalize the Virginia shooting. You get up, you get your coffee, you walk across campus and sit down at the wooden desk and get out your notebook and Bic and then. Bam. Gunshots. This is why civilians should never have been allowed to have guns in the first place. Since it's completely unrealistic to change the second amendment and illegalize guns, we should at least have tougher gun laws. The fact is, crazy people and children get their hands on guns. You should have to pass through strict channels before you can get a gun.

7. PRESIDENT
I hate George W. Bush.

8. NEW THINGS TO SHAKE UP MY ROUTINE
My new goal is to do at least one new thing each week. So far, since making this goal, I have done the following: Museum of the African Diaspora, American Conservatory Theater's "After the War," checked out Modern Times bookstore, saw a movie at the famed Red Vic theater, went to the journalism conference at Berkeley and ran from my house to Ocean Beach (about 6 miles).

9. SLEEP
I don't get enough of this. I'm ending this entry now so I can try to get more.

10. LINKS
Since I need to go to sleep I'll make links for this entry at a later time. Promise.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Sun, 25 Feb 2007 16:41:43 GMT

The view from here

I wonder what it’s like to be really rich. Really, really rich. Wealthy. Having a home in Hawaii and Napa and San Francisco, the latter of which has a view of the Bay and Marin and Alcatraz. To drive a Mercedes, to collect art from around the world, to have a Deborah Butterfield sculpture placed in the courtyard garden behind your home courtesy of a construction crane.

I imagine I'm one of millions of non-rich people who wonder what it would be like to have more money than ways to spend it. Therefore, do rich people ever wonder what it’s like to not have all that money? To not be always comfortable, and warm, and able to do anything they want to do because they can throw greenbacks in the face of most of their problems?

I ask because I spend Friday morning in the home of a very, very rich couple (who fits the description in the first paragraph). I went there to interview a woman who next month will be presented with an award for volunteerism. I think it should actually be called the "thanks for donating" award. So I walk into her home, and saw this:

This is the view from her family room window. Alcatraz is the island in the center, and behind that is Marin. Their house was actually quite comfortable for being so grand, not at all like the house I went to last month, which, um, was located across the street from Sen. Barbara Boxer's house. That house was so showy and weird and traditional and I was afraid to sneeze. It was massive.

I've never been poor. I've always had food, nice clothes, a warm bed, the ability to buy stuff I think I need but don't really. Still, I've never known what it's like to have a lifestyle saturated with money. When I go into a home just bursting at the seams with wealth, I can't help but be in awe.

The woman had an errand near my office, so she drove me back to work. In a sporty Mercedes convertible. A bum sat on the corner where I was dropped off. And that's San Francisco. The ultra rich and the dirt poor, sharing space in this 7-by-7-square-mile city.

Sometimes I just want to spend an evening lost in my head, reading a book, lounging around in my underwear in my bedroom. That's what I wanted to do last night. Except I had to work. Finding time to be alone other than when you're sleeping is perhaps the biggest challenge of living in a vibrant city with 3 roommates who you enjoy being with.

I grudgingly got on the bus to go to Bruno's, to cover a panel discussion and concert. My editors would expect a story, and the event's planners knew I would be there, so flaking wasn't an option. When I arrived, my friend Isaac was there, who I adore, and my bad attitude evaporated.

Just in time, too, because the panel discussion was incredible. It was about the intersection of art, culture, consciousness, music, hip hop and Judaism. The most interesting panelist was a man named Y-Love, who's black, from Baltimore, and at the age of 22 moved to Israel, studied at Yeshiva, became ultra-orthodox, and then moved to Brooklyn. In general, I think Jewish converts are fascinating, because they chose what I was simply given, but this guy was exceptional. You look at him, and you see the typical Hasidic Jew -- a black suit, white collared shirt, scraggly beard, tsit-tsit hanging down from underneath his shirt, peyos dangling from underneath his hat (in which probably a kippah rested underneath). But he's black, and talks with black vernacular, and knows how to rap. In fact, he told me afterward, he fell in love with hip hop when he was at yeshiva in Israel. He and his friend used freestyle and rap as a way to learn Torah and Talmud. He also told me that his Judaism, blackness and hop hop are "the braided challah in my life." Definitely using that quote.
So I stayed for his set. Odd, but fun. He raps in English, Hebrew and Yiddish.

I also gave some serious thought yesterday to whether or not I want to date non-Jews. It's a long story how this thought invaded my brain yesterday.... But it started when I went on Date No. 2 with a craigslister (not Jewish). And I got to thinking. I'm almost 26. At this point, anyone I date is a potential life-long partner. Is it worth getting involved with someone who's not Jewish, if that is a requirement for my future mate? Is it a deal-breaker? I used to think it was narrow-minded to say that I'd only date or marry a Jew, but I'm starting to have a change of heart... I mean, is it narrow-minded to say that I want to be with someone who loves books as much as I do? Someone who cares about the news, the world around us? No, it's simply knowing myself, and knowing that I need to be with someone who can engage me in a conversation of things that matter, to us both. And Judaism matters to me. I'm realizing I do want to end up with someone Jewish, who can share with me all the values and memories derived from this faith and culture. It's hard for me to admit, since it eliminates a huge number of people in the world. But maybe that's just the way it is.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 02:39:31 GMT

From Mr. P.

My dad emailed me this story today. It's great. Read it here.

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Sat, 10 Feb 2007 06:26:37 GMT

I don't know how parents do it

Cat update: Turns out, Ringo was not only chased by a dog, but bit by a dog. Yup. Two puncture wounds in the belly, plus a cut on his front left paw. I took him to the vet because when I got home from work, he was not just meowing, but moaning, and walking around like a senile cat instead of the feisty and energetic teenager that he is.

Thank goodness I took him in. I mean, he had to undergo anesthesia so he could be X-rayed to ensure nothing penetrated his internal organs, and also so the doctor could clean out his wounds and stitch him up. I brought him home and when I saw/heard how uncomfortable he was, and how painful his belly looks, I just lost it. Bawling. In tears for like 15 minutes. I called the vet back to make sure his behavior was normal and that it was okay to give him another dose of pain medication (I wasn't technically supposed to, but I think it's okay because he's sleeping soundly and so at least he's not cognizant of his pain right now). The next few days I need to make him wear one of those cones so he doesn't pick at his wounds, and give him antibiotics (the pink stuff, just like kids take) twice a day for a week.

I have a newfound respect for and perspective on parenthood. I don't know if I'm cut out for it. After all, I can barely handle taking care of my cat and coping with his pain. Kids? They're like walking, talking accidents. I can't imagine how horrendous it must be for parents to watch their children in severe pain.

Anyway, Ringo will be fine, so says Dr. Yaffe. He has to go back to the vet on Tuesday or Wednesday, and then hopefully that's it. Get well wishes can be sent via email. I'll read them to him. ;o)

Friday, February 09, 2007

Fri, 09 Feb 2007 08:03:44 GMT

He's probably just REALLY freaked out

I walk into the apartment, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to collapse. Instead, I hang out with my roommates and discuss the newest issue of Paste Magazine. We talk about our days, how funny Explainer's been this week. Jason says he's going to sleep. I think that's a good idea. So does Emilie.

"Where's your cat?" Emilie asks.

"Umm, I don't know, maybe in a closet?"

Not in the closet. Don't see him under my bed.

I call for him several times. No response. This is strange, I think, especially considering that Ringo has been known to climb the grates of the front door when he hears voices, but doesn't hear the key turning the lock He gets impatient. And he always comes when I call him.

"I don't think he's here," I say. My palms are a little sweaty.

I walk outside to the private alley adjoining my flat with my neighbors'. I call for him like I always do, in this sort of high-pitched sing-songy voice that resembles the person who always coos at strangers' babies. I hear a distant "meow." Scared, frightened, longer than usual.

I call his name again and again, but I can't pinpoint where it's coming from.

My neighbors get involved. The guy on the third floor says he thinks it's coming from the backyard. The girls next door on the second floor, whom we've never met, say they saw a cat outside today.

It was being chased by a dog, they announce. Ummm, excellent. My cat who's never been outside today was at some point chased by the neigbor's White Fang. Or, uh, brownish fang.

I walk out into our backyard, which is soaked with 8 hours of rain. A woman in the house behind our place tells me he's up on the ledge in the corner of the yard.

When I locate Ringo, he's so wet he's unrecognizable. He meows louder than I've ever heard before. We get him inside, and I call the 24-emergency vet in town. I sound mildly ridiculous, like I'm calling about a sick toddler. The nurse says I shouldn't worry, that he'll be okay and "is probably just really freaked out," and there's nothing to worry about unless he's still acting weird on Saturday. Good. That's good.

He sulks around the house with a bewildered look, like his freeze dried shrimp treats have come to life and doused him in rainwater. Later, he curls up in front of the fireplace, dry and fluffy again. He sleeps. And he will never want to go outside ever again.

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Thu, 28 Dec 2006 18:02:59 GMT

Investigating myself

So I'm totally, completely bored at work today because we're not publishing an issue this week, and therefore don't have any pressing deadlines. Plus, I got all the work done yesterday that I needed to finish by today, therefore I have a shortage of stuff to do. I do not know why the days between christmas and new year's are not a national holiday. nobody ever gets anything done, ever. I'm pretty sure most of my coworkers who showed up today are talking on Gmail chat.

I'm currently unsure of my place in the journalism world, having made this huge change from dailies to a niche publication. Up until just this week, I thought maybe I was done with newspapers altogether. Consider this: I get the Chronicle delivered to my door but only read it every couple of days. It bores me. It feels irrelevant and stale and is frequently poorly-written. It's also cumbersome to read on the train. With all this in mind, I thought, maybe I'm in need of a new career.

But then I spent yesterday afternoon reading this unbelievable series in the Chicago Tribune, and all of a sudden I realized that I'm not done with journalism, just with the newspaper business. The business is awful, and frustrating, and really out of touch with what readers need. (Not working for a daily has given me great perspective already, and so I can only imagine what the coming year will bring. It's good for me to do something different, to be a reader like everyone else.) But journalism (not necessarily newspapers, I've discovered) is in my blood. It's as much a part of me as my laugh, my curly hair, my family, my friends. Good journalism -- in print, online, on the air -- feeds my soul and mind like food feeds the belly. I don't want to stop looking for stories, telling those stories, figuring out better ways to string words together and form sentences, paragraphs, columns of text that move people, make them laugh, teach them something new and important. I merely need to find a new forum for doing this. And that will be the challenge: redefining my place in journalism, and relocating to that place, since I don't know exactly where it is (I mean this metaphorically, of course, since I don't want to be anywhere but here, in San Francisco).

Here's the thing. I like writing for J., but it's not nearly as compelling or challenging as my last two jobs. So now that I'm settled in SF, I need to start looking for freelance work. That is New Year's Resolution No. 1 (as is going to the gym, and reading and running more often). Writing is like riding a bike -- you never really forget, if you don't do it for a while, but you feel off-kilter and maybe your bike chain gets rusty. I need to stay fresh. I don't want to forget how to do the kind of journalism I once did. And yet I need to also work harder to improve with this kind of journalism (as in, more magazine-style). How to do both? We shall see, I suppose. This is my challenge for the new year.

For your reading pleasure, I've compiled a list of a few of my favorite stories from 2006. Read and listen if/when you have time.

Harvesting Cash, Washington Post -- Series about crackpot farm subsidies.
Oil Safari, Chicago Tribune -- Reporter follows gas from production in South America to Marathon station in suburbs.
Brainstorm, Orange County Register -- First-person narrative about bipolar disorder. Gripping, moving, unique.
Your Courts, Their Secrets, Seattle Times -- Investigative piece that's somehow really entertaining and engaging. Discusses how thousands of court files are improperly sealed every year.
Vanishing Class, LA Times -- Four-part series about how and why so many high school students still dropout.
Caring for Kids at the End of Life, NPR -- Melissa Block spends time in the palliative care wing of a Philly children's hospital. This will induce a driveway moment and probably some tears. A definite download.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Sun, 22 Oct 2006 02:10:34 GMT

Sand in my toes

We woke up at 9:30 this morning and the sparkling sun might as well have knocked on our window, beckoning — come play outside with me! And so it was destined. Our afternoon would be spent at the beach, eating tuna sandwiches and listening to KFOG on a Sony boombox from 1995.

The beach. I went to the beach today. It was 80 degrees. Other than the crowds, it felt like I completely left the city. The waves were huge, the sky was clear, the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance made all our pictures look like postcards. Baker Beach is very San Francisco. People playing frisbee with their dogs, dodging the waves with their kids, roasting tofu or chicken kebobs on mini charcoal grills.... and sunbathing nude. Erica and I took a stroll just north of where the group of us had set up our blankets and picnic material. There, we saw some naked old men and a few perky young women. Yup. A nude beach. People here do whatever they want. They're free to express themselves in a million different ways, all of which are accepted, and I've decided that's what gives the city a happy citrus glaze.

I've lived here for about 2.5 weeks. During that time, I've mostly explored downtown (where I work) and the Mission (where my friends live, and I, on an air mattress in their family room). One day I walked to the Inner Sunset, where I bought new comfy walking shoes from a store that measures your walking pattern by having you step on something that measures how you put pressure on your feet when you stand and walk. Impressive, no? On our way to the beach we drove through a whole section of the city I had not been in, and it made me realize just how much there is to explore and discover.

It's so exciting to move somewhere new and not immediately want to leave.

I definitely like my job. It's different. The office is small and everyone's in close proximity to one another, and so I don't have as much autonomy as I'm used to. But perhaps that's also because I'm new. I'm not sure yet. Plus, my editors, being 50-something Jewish men, are a bit, how do I say this, brasher and nosier than editors of my past. Beyond the office, the Jewish community is culturally rich and ecclectic, just like the cities in which they live, and so I'm looking forward to learning more about it and the people in it. However, I'm not used to being around so many Jewish people. I love it, don't get me wrong. But it's been a long time since I've been surrounded by so many people who share my faith and the culture tied to it, so it's become unfamiliar territory.

Last week I found a place to live. It's a beautiful old flat in Lower Haight, close to public transportation, parks, shopping, eating and live music. It's within walking distance of Golden Gate Park (though only on an ambitious day, since it's all uphill). It's a 15-20 minute walk to Erica and Adam's house (my best friends here), has hardwood floors, bay windows, working fire places and a garden/yard in the back. I'm living with an old friend Jason, who I lost touch with for about 7 years until we both just moved here and needed to stay in Adam and Erica's apartment. Also in our household is Jon, a new friend from the Boston area who is friends with A and E's good friends, and lastly, Emilie, a fellow Clevelander. I think the 2 boy-2 girl balance will be great. I can't wait. Having a door I can close, a closet and a bed will absolutely help me adjust and setlle in to this new chapter of my life.

So far, the highlights of my urban life include: concerts, art museums, dance classes, lectures by Washington Post reporters and really good library books.

For the first time in a very long time, I feel happy. Content. Some days, when I'm walking by myself, I feel like there's nowhere else I'd rather be. The first time I felt like that was just a few days after I arrived here. It felt odd. Like a foreign object lodged in my brain. What's wrong? I wondered. Then I realized it was merely satisfaction seeping through my blood stream. It had simply been a while since I felt it and wasn't sure how to identify it.

So yes, the city is expensive, and yes, there are a lot of homeless people. But it's still tremendous. And it's my new home.