Poetry: The Symbols Beneath What We’ve Seen – By Allan Raible

There she sat,

Her eyes gazing out beyond,

Her fingers wrapped around a stained coffee cup.

She knew it was forever and yet she knew there were limits in time.

She gazed at me with a loss for words.

A forgotten sense of forethought

And a twisted sense of truth.

I focused on her lips.

Half parted as if they wanted to say something,

But hellbent on silence as she took an even breath. 

These wordless moments pass the time.

They remind us each where we have been.

And tell us about our context.

The Symbols Beneath What We’ve Seen.   

Observation: Has Technology Made Our Society Flaky? By Allan Raible

If I had to guess, I would estimate that nine out of the ten most recent appointments I had with friends were rescheduled.  And they weren’t just rescheduled.  They were rescheduled at the last minute.  Often times this warning would come via a text message or an email that would read some to the effect of, “Sorry, man.”  Have other people noticed this trend?  Is it just me?  Do I surround myself with people who can’t stick to plans?  I actually wouldn’t put the blame on my friends.  I put the blame on technology. 

Thirty years ago, before cell-phones and the Internet became chic and ubiquitous, when you made an appointment, there was pretty much one way to get in contact with someone if you wanted to cancel.  That method was the old, reliable landline.  Of course, your friend would have to be home to receive the message and if your friend wasn’t home, you’d have to leave a message, most likely on a clunky cassette.  For this reason, people probably stuck to their schedules more often than they do today. 

Lately, I’ve had friends reschedule on me left and right.  I’ve had women reschedule dates.  I’ve had business contacts reschedule meetings.  It’s almost as if nothing happens when it originally is supposed to anymore.  I wake up on the day I am supposed to meet with someone and I think, “Well, I wonder if that’s ACTUALLY GOING TO HAPPEN.” 

Again, although I rarely reschedule MY appointments I find myself constantly rearranging my schedule to suit others.  That is frustrating, but a part of life I have accepted.  Now, with social media, people being able to reach us on cell phones 24/7 and the increasing size of the average work-week due to routine corporate downsizing, we are all stretched too thin.  We’ve lost the buffer of humanity that we once had.  And technology has made it easier to blow off our appointments.  If you have the mild inkling of not wanting to do something, you can now put a stop to it with a handful of keystrokes.  Lickety-split!  SEND!  DONE!

Again, this is probably a society-wide issue.  And if you are a friend of mine who has recently rescheduled on me, who is reading this, I don’t blame you.  It is part of a wider problem.  We are all pulled in too many directions these days.  There isn’t enough time to enjoy life.  There isn’t enough room in our heads for cherished memories because we have too many damn passwords to remember.  We have too many responsibilities.  We have too many commitments.  We are in a constant state of flux.

I miss the days of being able to just nicely have lunch with an old friend without having to reschedule five times.  I miss not having to rush through a date because we both have so many things to do.  I miss old friends I haven’t seen in years.  I miss spending whole days just relaxing with people I care about.  But, we are all so oversaturated and overstressed that those little personal connections have suffered in the process. 

The convenience technology has afforded us is priceless, but it has cost us a bit of stress in our interpersonal relationships.  We have bitten off more than we can chew and somehow this has become the societal norm.  This has inadvertently turned most of us into noncommittal, flakes.  Again, we don’t mean to hurt each other this way, but it is a given and has now become the standard. 

I miss the days of concrete plans! 

Op-Ed: An Open Letter To The New York City MTA – By Allan Raible

Dear NYC MTA,

As a lifetime rider of your service, I am grateful that you exist.  As a “differently-abled” person who sometimes has trouble getting around, you have often provided my only and/or easiest transportation option.  However, in the last few years, your level of service has declined considerably.  As someone who rides the F train every day to work, I can say that with each passing day I get angrier and angrier with your abusive relationship towards me and the rest of New York City’s subway riders. 

It currently takes me on average an hour and twenty minutes to get to work door-to-door.  I don’t work that far uptown and I don’t live that far into Brooklyn.  In fact, one night, I took a cab home and timed out my ride to thirty-five minutes!  There was a time when the subway provided the fastest service.  People would ride the train to avoid traffic.  Those days have apparently passed. 

Photo by Allan Raible

The F train in particular is shockingly abysmal.  I noticed the change a few years back when they extended the G line a few stops beyond Smith and 9^th. The G causes tremendous congestion on the F line.  As a result, in Brooklyn where the two trains meet, they often are reduced to a slow, painful crawl.  The G should be the local.  The F should be on the unused express tracks.  The F train should be rocketing its way forth.  But this has not happened.  Common sense would say that after a bit more construction is finished, this change might occur, but I’ll believe it when I see it. 

As the fares have risen to an astronomical $2.50, one might think the service would get better.  In fact, with every passing day, it gets increasingly worse.  The city and the subway system are taking advantage of the public.  The fact that the trains ran better in the late eighties and early nineties when the fare was a reasonable $1.00 seems to point to the fact that someone has to be scraping off the top.  The system is not being run efficiently.  Mayor Bloomberg hasn’t said a word about this.  He’s a billionaire.  He doesn’t seem to care.  I have no real proof that the books are being messed with, I’m merely speculating, but that seems to be a reasonable assumption given the drop in service combined with the routine requests for fare hikes. 

Photo by Allan Raible

But the fact that there isn’t more of a fuss being raised is something I find distressing.  This morning, my commute took nearly two hours.  Why?  Well, I waited for the F for a half hour.  A fuzzy voice came through the speakers announcing that the delay was due to a “signal malfunction.”  Accidents happen.  Things break. But there is a new excuse every day.  And sometimes you crawl or stop for long periods of time with no explanation whatsoever!  I’d accept this “signal malfunction” if it hadn’t become the norm.  The days I actually make decent time on my trip to work are rare!  More often than not, I find myself going stir-crazy sitting in a train car awaiting barely-audible instructions.  Seriously MTA, what has happened to you? 

I’ve also noticed all summer that they’ve been running older F trains.  I don’t know why this is, but it is a mistake for several reasons.  Firstly, these trains seem to have less standing room.  This means you end up getting a virtual lap-dance from the smelly stranger in front of you.  It also means that the guy insisting on reading his ipad while holding his coffee in his other hand is likely to accidentally smack you in the skull if you are sitting below him.  People insist on carrying a lot of stuff with them these days.  There’s always the person with the oversized backpack, unaware of the amount of space it takes up, or the person who insists on taking a full-sized bicycle onto a crowded rush hour train.  Modern passengers need space.  It’d be nice if they’d be considerate and adapt but who are we kidding? That isn’t going to happen. 

Photo by Allan Raible

The second problem with the older trains is that they don’t stop very smoothly.  As a passenger, one often finds oneself lurched about like a rubber ball.  As I’ve stated, I am “differently-abled.”  My walking is affected.  I often get a seat because of this, but when I’m standing, my balance isn’t all that great.  So, in these older cars, I find myself gripping onto the pole for dear life every time the train comes to a jolting halt.  And getting a seat doesn’t guarantee a lack of injury risk.  One time, I was sitting on an older train and we stopped and my shoulder got jammed into the patrician at the end of the seat.  It hurt. 

My hope in bringing this up is that it will become more of a topic of conversation.  It seems to be something the leadership of the city is ignoring.  The decline in the subway system’s performance is not something we should blindly accept as a given. One hopes the next mayor will do something to fix the problem.  In any case, the system is no longer as efficient as it should be.  We, the public are being held hostage by the powers that be as they gouge us while delivering lackluster service.  It’s time someone spoke up.

Thank you!

Sincerely,

Allan Raible – Brooklyn, New York

1915 Armenian Genocide: My Family's Story - By Lia Parisyan

“I should like to see any power of the world destroy this race, this small tribe of unimportant people, whose wars have all been fought and lost, whose structures have crumbled, literature is unread, music is unheard, and prayers are no more answered. Go ahead, destroy Armenia . See if you can do it. Send them into the desert without bread or water. Burn their homes and churches. Then see if they will not laugh, sing and pray again. For when two of them meet anywhere in the world, see if they will not create a New Armenia.”


― William Saroyan

Aleppo, Syria WWI 

April 24th commemorates the 98th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide in 1915. In 2012, France recognized the Armenian Genocide yet the United States refuses to accept the atrocities and systematic massacres and deportations of 1.5 million Armenians in Turkey.

Growing up, I attended a small parochial Armenian school in Woodside, New York. St. Illuminator's was a bilingual school, which placed great importance on Armenian language and culture, and is the reason I am still able to converse and write in my mother's tongue over a decade after graduating the sixth grade.

I am a Syrian-Armenian. I have a story.

Sateneeg, Mustapha, My Grandfather (Fuad) to right of his father 

My great-grandmother, Sateneeg and her Armenian-American husband (born in New York City) and their two children, Souren and Araxi (also born in New York City), were on vacation in Turkey, when the Genocide broke out. They were visiting Sateeng's first husband's kilim (rug) factory, when he was shot point blank in front of her and his children.

Sateeneg became a widow in an instance and was in her teens with two children. The options were slim: face a march through Der Zor (known as Ad-Deir to Syrians and neighboring countries), which has become synonymous with Armenian Auschwitz or swallow poison to escape capture.

Mustapha Chelebi

As luck or fate would have it, my great-grandfather, Mustapha Chelebi, an ophthalmologist from Aleppo and close friend of Sateneeg's husband, found my great-grandmother and her two children, and lied to Turkish authorities. He was a doctor in the Turkish Army and risked his own life by claiming Sateneeg and her two children were his own. He wrote a letter to his mother and sisters in Syria, and sent Sateneeg, Souren and Araxi to Aleppo. Souren and Araxi would be known as Ali and Fatima and would begin living as Muslims with a family they never met, living on my great-grandfather's word.

The war persisted for 4 years, and for 4 years they lived behind a veil of secrecy. During this time, Mustapha saved 23 Armenian women, by claiming he needed nurses to treat wounded Turkish soldiers. One by one, he sneaked these women out to safety. I still have letters from the American Red Cross (dated 1917), thanking Mustapha for all of his efforts. His heroic rescue of the Armenian women is captured in an Armenian book called, "Antranig."

During the course of the World War I, Mustapha was eventually captured by the Russians; seeing his value as a doctor educated in Lyon, he spent part of the war in St. Petersburg, where he taught himself how to speak and read Russian.

My mother used to tell me that she would find him reading this strange language,when she was a child, and he would tell her that it was Russian. Even after the war, my great-grandfather remained fascinated by Russia; I still have a samovar (literally "water-boiler" used to make tea) that's traveled and survived the Diaspora to make its way into my dining room.

After the Treaty of Versailles was signed, and peace was restored, Mustapha returned to Aleppo. He told his mother and sisters the truth; four years had passed since he had sent Sateneeg and her children to safety. Mustapha gave my Sateneeg a choice (a fiery redhead, who had been somewhat of a free spirit, who went on hunting excursions, was outspoken, the prized and rebellious only daughter of a wealthy Armenian coal mine owner): she could return to New York City or she could do him the great honor of becoming his wife.

The Chelebi Family, Aleppo Syria 

Sateneeg chose to become his wife. She and Mustapha would have 5 children, and lived a highly eccentric and uncharacteristically modern and Western life. Santeneeg became his right hand in the desert. Though illiterate, my grandmother said that she knew all of the medicines and would join Mustapha in his safari hat and his Jeep to go out ton treat the poor free of charge. Mustapha was somewhat a modern-day Robin Hood: he'd overcharge the rich, and treat the poor for free. Their cook, Mahmoud was a man who would have gone completely blind had it not been for treatment. My grandfather took a liking to him, and offered him a cook's position, which he accepted. My mother grew up with Mahmoud, who listened to the radio as he cut onions, she'd ask him questions, and grew up in a highly unusual environment due to the cultural influences that were penetrating the Middle East in the late 1950s.

Eventually, my grandfather, Fuad (Frank) would become involved in politics; my mother, her brother and my grandmother would move to Lebanon during the outbreak of the war, while my grandfather was imprisoned. His sister, Belkis would help him escape by distracting the prison guards; he would leave the country in the back of a car trunk, and with the help of the American Government, would enter New York as a stateless citizen.

This is a story of Hope. My maternal great-grandmother's side wasn't so lucky. All of her family members were massacred save for herself and her father. The atrocities are documented by several foreign observers at the time, there are photographs, and their survivor stories.

The Chobanian Family (my maternal grandmother's family: next post will feature her story)

2015 is the centennial anniversary of the Armenian Genocide; I would like to spend the next two years, collecting stories and photographs of survivors and their families. Perhaps, the United States will not recognize the genocide, but my generation, and the generations that follow will have their histories: the stories of our grandparents and great-grandparents so that we NEVER FORGET.

Kurt and Layne – By Allan Raible

19 years ago today, we lost Kurt Cobain.  11 years ago today, we lost Layne Staley.  Two men lost before their time.  Two men in a lot of pain and a lot of trouble.  One, I considered one of my musical heroes, changing my view of music forever.  The other was less of an influence but still someone I looked at with great respect.

I was in high school when Kurt died.  His death hit me hard.  It was a sudden shock as a huge Nirvana fan.  It was unthinkable.  I listened to “Nevermind,” “Incesticide” and “In Utero,” as if on a continuous loop for an extended period  of my teen years.  I expected to look forward to more music from someone who had enlightened me what pop music could be.  To have him cut himself down in his prime was a true tragedy I could not fathom.  I wanted to hear what was next.  I didn’t know it was the end of the line.  Today, it still is quite upsetting.  He missed out on what could’ve been a bright future and we missed his now absent potential output. 

I was an adult when Layne died.  I listened to him less than Kurt, but nevertheless, he still stood large among the Seattle-grunge luminaries.  His death was sadly less of a surprise.  It was as if he withered and wasted away for a number of years.  He’d faded a little from public consciousness at the time of his death. At that time, Alice In Chains hadn’t released a proper studio album in seven years. And yet, I remember during my teen years being impressed by his versatility.  He had a very different approach than Kurt.  I remember being impressed by the many intricate sonic layers of “I Stay Away,” whereas Kurt was able to make something really brutal come out like a pop song.  Layne had a more traditional, brooding approach. 

Both men managed to get groundbreaking music on Top Forty radio. Both men exuded angst. Both men used their music as mouthpieces to spell out their pain and their struggles.  Both men were ultimately done in by their demons.  Both men are legends who deserve the artistic respect of generations to come.  Both men should still be here.  We are weaker and sadder in their absence. 

Remembering Roger Ebert: 1942-2013 - By Allan Raible

The lights are a little dimmer tonight.  Hollywood has lost one of its biggest fans.  In fact, Roger Ebert approached movies in a very cerebral way.  One could argue that modern cinematic criticism was built around a framework that Ebert and Gene Siskel established.  And now, sadly they are both no longer with us.

I was a huge fan of Ebert’s work.  I remember being a small child, first discovering film and coming across random episodes of “At the Movies.”  I would pay very close attention to the well-thought-out “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” reviews.  I, of course, wouldn’t take them as gospel.  They would serve as mere background foundation to make an informed decision about which movies to see.  If I really thought I wanted to see a film, a “two thumbs down” review wouldn’t deter me.  There were times, in fact, when I disagreed with Ebert’s reviews, but more often than not, he was a respectable barometer whose love of his medium showed through.  You could tell he really lived for those celluloid images.  It wasn’t about building people up or cutting them down.  It was about wanting to see excellent movies.  Gene Siskel died in 1999, and this was still the case in later years with Richard Roeper by his side.  When you watched “At The Movies” (or any one of his similarly branded shows)or read one of Ebert’s columns, you knew you were in for a master class on criticism.  The man won a Pulitzer Prize for an obvious reason. 

Drawing by Allan Raible.

In fact, when I think about it, Roger Ebert was one of the reasons I got into criticism in the first place.  His love for the movies was a big influence on me.  In my case, I write more about music than movies, but loving both mediums just about equally, in Roger Ebert I still saw a kindred spirit.  He was no one’s hack.  He didn’t mince words and he wasn’t out for an easily quotable tagline.  He was a man who viewed entertainment in a scholarly way. 

I would guess the majority of movie, music and book critics working today owe a debt of some kind to Roger Ebert.  I really hope his reviews will be studied for generations to come.  For more than forty years, his opinions mattered.  So few of his peers approached the medium with the love and respect he gave.  Many try and many leave their marks, but there will sadly never be another Roger Ebert. 

So, dim the lights, sit in the middle of the theatre and please let’s put out an extra popcorn bucket for Roger.  Without him, the cinematic experience will never be the same.     

The Age Of Semi-Useless Duplicate Technology By Allan Raible

I remember very clearly back in 2001, as a DJ who liked to make mixes for myself,  spending a sizable sum of money on a CD burning component.  It was made by Philips, and of course it died right around the time the warranty expired.  Of course, I remember thinking it was amazing whenever it worked properly.  

Back in the day when you wanted to make a cassette dub of a CD you bought, you’d of course lose sound quality, but with this technology no quality seemed to be lost.  “How could this be available to the public at my local electronic store?” I pondered this with great seriousness. 

In the wrong hands this could be detrimental to the music industry.  Of course this was just at the dawning of the age of declining CD sales.  Little did I know that the future would hold the age of iTunes when any hapless sap with access to a computer could download a sizable bit of his or her collection onto a DVD  and pass it along to his or her friends with no loss in quality.  Little did I know that the CD itself would be replaced by a sonically weaker medium, (the mp3) and that there would be a day when people wouldn’t want to read the liner notes of every album they purchased.  Music, itself was sadly growing disposable in the era of instant gratification. 

Our need to keep our media omnipresent and at our fingertips at all times is a double-edged sword.  Yes, the convenience such technology affords us is invaluable, but yet at the same time it makes it too easy for the consumer to manipulate and remove it from its original context.  What was once static a generation ago is now malleable.  It’s no longer a solid object.  It now lives somewhere within the confines of the cyber ether. 

It is stranger still that nowadays we often find ourselves with the same product in a variety of formats.  When vinyl returned and began to see a small boom a few years back, you started seeing records not only with bonus CDs bundled inside their packaging, but also with cards for “free” digital downloads.  If you are exclusively a vinyl listener, you aren’t going to want the CD.  If you have the CD (or a record player with a USB drive slot, chances are you don’t need the download code.  But yet the industry still gives us these perks to try to win us over.  Whatever way suits us best, they want us just to keep listening. 

Even more curious is the movie studios’ similar response for the rapidly changing media-conscious environment.  When the Blu-ray disc was introduced, one of the main perks was that it was an interchangeable format that understood the previous technological generation.  The vast majority of all Blu-ray players also play DVDs.  Thus, the development of the Blu-ray/DVD combo-pack is for the most part probably a wasted innovation.  Unless you are a DVD watcher with the foresight to buy the combo pack in preparation for a technological upgrade, you’ll most likely find one of those discs useless.  Perhaps the thought process is that you’ll have the Blu-ray and will be able to take the other disc over to your DVD-watching friend’s house for a social movie night.  Although, I’m sure the movie studios would not like such sharing.  They would probably want everyone to buy his/her own copy or stream it from Netflix. 

Then there’s the whole issue of the free, complimentary digital copy.  This doesn’t come with every DVD or Blu-ray. It should be standardized.  It should be a given.  It isn’t. 

Even worse, when you used to be guaranteed an iTunes download of your movie so you could use it on your portable device, now even that isn’t a given, either.  So-called “Ultra-violet” downloads give you a version of the movie you have to stream on a website, and thus have to set up a password and a special account.  This means you can really only watch your movie if you are watching it on a portable device with wifi or web-access, essentially cutting ipod viewing out of the equation.  Yes, the ipod screen is small and not ideal for movie viewing, but if you are sitting on an airplane, in your seat, or riding a subway, your eyes will adjust and you will deal.  An iTunes movie download is preferable, but I sense the ultra-violet technology was developed in an attempt to knock Apple down a peg.  For the most part, when I get a movie and only comes with an ultra-violet download without an iTunes option, I consider it useless. 

Imagine how many discs are packaged that will never be used.  Imagine how many download codes will never be redeemed.  In an age of attempted universal satisfaction, we have created an environment filled with wasted mediums in an unpredictable marketplace.  This is simultaneously both useful and wasteful.

Until the industry is standardized and say every movie comes in a Blu-ray/DVD/Digital Copy combo-pack, or every record comes packaged the same way, a certain percentage of the public will be let down.  Let downs are a part of life, but not optimal in an age of ever-portable, omnipresent media saturation.    

FSNYC's Third Annual Duck-Off Cooking Competition

I could not be happier to film, Queens native, Adrian Ashby compete in Food System's New York's 3rd annual Duck-Off on March 10th.

Lia Parisyan 

lmparisyan@gmail.com

(917) 685-6639 

FSNYC'S Third Annual Duck-Off Cooking Competition 

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

NEW YORK, NY (February 26, 2013)— Food Systems NYC is organizing its 3rd cooking competition on the 10th of March at Jimmy’s No. 43, 43 East 7th Street, New York, an iconic East Village landmark, offering a cash bar fully-stocked with specially selected beers and ciders from around the globe, giving guests the unique opportunity to savor duck-centered culinary delights in what promises to be an exciting walk-around competition. 

This year’s event features amateur and professional chefs of diverse culinary backgrounds, serving up delicacies using Hudson Valley Duck Farm’s renowned poultry. Participants will be judged on various parameters, such as taste and quality of presentation. Tickets are $25 (at the door) and are also available at www.brownpapertickets.com/event/332430. Support the culinary arts and talents and help encourage the joy of cooking. 

Featured Chefs at FSNYC's Duck Off Include:

Adrian Ashby- FoodNetwork Chopped! 

Twitter: @ashbygourmand

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False Nostalgia By Allan Raible

 Earlier this week, I happened to see this video for Skrillex’s single, “Summit.”  As I watched this fancy, nicely sheened clip collection of young folks doing mostly dangerous things, sticking out their tongues and genuinely having fun, a strange feeling came over me.  A feeling of loss.  A feeling of nostalgia for a youth I never had.  I have no idea why this video triggered such a response, but part of me began missing those moments of the suburban upbringing that I never had where my friends got together on Friday nights, laughed around a campfire and rode bicycles covered in tiny, bright lights.  Part of me missed going to parties where people were randomly making out in corners. 

My youth was not full of mischief.  I was an urban, sensible teenager.  I was a worrywart who avoided chaos to stay away from trouble.  Could I ride a skateboard?  No.  I was the kid with poor coordination and bad balance who was too afraid of heights to even imagine trying to do an ollie.  I didn’t grow up around swimming pools.  There was no need for me to jump off of roofs into them.  I didn’t have such access. Growing up in New York, none of my friends drove.  There was no need or access to sunroofs to pointlessly endanger my hands and my head. 

But, I guess, on some level, some part of me wants to reclaim the innocence (and stupidity) of youth.  Part of me wants to hang out with friends and goof off for all hours of the night as if we don’t have a care in the world.  And yet, there’s a sensible adult in me that tells me such a time doesn’t exist.  (Lighting your friends on fire is frankly ridiculous and should never be done by ANYONE.) Such a place, such a moment is perhaps a figment of a culture hell-bent on showing us images of happy, magazine-model-ready club kids experiencing what is probably a Friday night like there is no tomorrow.  I wish I’d had more nights like that.  I wish I had been one of those guys able to sweep the girl of my dreams off her feet at a chaotic party. Hell, and here I am, in my thirties, probably just as much an onlooker and voyeur of such a scene as I would’ve been at sixteen or seventeen.  Why?  It’s a part of my life that would’ve never happened.  It’s something completely counter to my instincts and personality. 

Nostalgia is a strange idea.  Especially when you are nostalgic about something that has never happened to you.  The weird thing is, when good things do happen to you and you are in the happiest point of your life, you often don’t realize it until it is too late and the moment has passed.  What a cruel reality.  Of course, if you were actively cognizant of when you were experiencing the peak of your life, you’d probably dread that moment when you’d realize that said moment had run its course.  Perhaps that would be knowing too much. 

I guess my ultimate point is that we all need to loosen up.  Life would be more fun if we all lived our lives as freely as the people in this video.  I want to dance in the dark with crazy lights shining on me.  I want to have the most beautiful woman in the room grab me and drag me out to dance.  The overall message I get is don’t give up hope.  No matter how old we get, there’s still an irresponsible raver kid trying to get out.  This is apparently even true if such a part of us was never openly apparent. 

Take a deep breath and let loose from time to time.  It’s good for the soul.  Know when to be responsible and when to throw caution to the wind.  Often times, you find your dreams will come true when you ignore that voice in your head and let your inhibitions go.  The key is to know when to be free and when to remain sensible.  Sometimes, you just have to hold your breath and trust your gut.  The world of possibility is always open, as long as you allow yourself access.