Blog

Everybody Poops

2008-02-04T17:18:47Z

Check out the Wikipedia page for parrotfish. It will tell you that the parrotfish gets its name from its "parrot-like" beak. It will also tell you that the parrotfish changes its gender during its lifetime. It will not, however, tell you about the wonderful world of parrotfish poop. Wikipedia isn't exactly known for being the world's best resource on, well, anything, but poop is the most interesting thing the parrotfish has going for it. A more thorough Googling will tell you that a large portion of the world's sand is, in fact, parrotfish poop. Seriously. That castle you just made? Poop. Those buckets of sand you just poured over your friend? Poop. That thing you just swallowed underwater that's making you gag a little? Sand? No, poop.

]]> Diana came to drop-in tutoring the other day with a fun fact that her teacher had shared. This was then relayed to everyone else over lunch. We were told that parrotfish grind up pieces of coral skeleton, poop it out, and this becomes sand. And not just a little bit of sand. The majority of the sand in the Caribbean is poop. "That is so totally not true," we said. "Everyone would know if sand was poop. That is just too much poop." Well, we were wrong. Sand is most definitely poop. Reefnews.com lists the "cool facts" about the parrotfish as it being a "colorful, common fish" and having a "powerful beak for algae." Wrong. Those are not cool facts. A parrotfish can produce up to one ton of poop/sand a year. That is a cool fact. I have spent the past week asking everyone I know if they are aware that they are walking through poop every time they go to the beach. No one knew. Well, the secret's out. Sand is poop. Tell everyone.

Saving the Day Pretty Regularly

2007-11-11T20:16:51Z

The day I became a superhero was July 11th, 2007, the day I came to my first workshop at 826NYC. Since then, I've been fighting crime and saving the day pretty regularly. I'm sure you've seen me in the papers under headlines like, "CRIME FOUGHT!" or, "DAY SAVED!" I don't have my own series of comic books yet, because I've only been on the scene for a few months, but I've appeared in comics alongside my close friends Daredevil and Dr. Strange several times. Daredevil's a nice guy. He's lived through some rough stuff, so he's not all there all the time, but he's good company. I think he makes appearances here once in a while. If you're reading this, look into it. He's somebody you should meet, no matter who you are. I don't know about Strange, though. Dr. Strange is a really crazy dude. I mean really crazy.

]]> Anyway, I'm sure you're not interested in reading my braggadocious accounts of my glamorous everyday life. Well, I'm not sure. You might be. But I'm going to assume that what's more interesting than that is the story of how I struggled to get where I am today. It began, as I said, on July 11th, when I began my training. That was the day I became a superhero, but at that point I was only technically a superhero in training. Fighting crime and saving the day don't just come to you naturally. Unless you're Superman. But Superman's a special case. I'm not as naturally inclined. I had to hone my talents. I underwent a rigorous "Boot Camp" program that left no time for dawdling or slacking off. Armed with little more than a pen, I was immediately required to attempt to fight both fiction and non-fiction crimes. My style and execution were criticized by experts in the field who pulled no punches. It wasn't easy.

However, the experience was rewarding, and soon, a magazine will be published called First Magazine, which will contain two accounts of instances of my fighting crime with skill and efficiency.

I'm now a full-fledged superhero with a license to fight crime daily. It's awesome.

Translation: My name is Stephen Piccarella. I came to 826 a couple of months ago to work on a literary magazine and thought it was a really cool place. Now I volunteer here. It's a lot of fun. I hang out in the basement, tutor kids, put up flyers, handle office work, and enjoy the literary atmosphere. And also fight crime. For real. Sometimes.

I encourage anyone reading this to follow in my footsteps and traverse the path to superheroism. We even have a "Become A Superhero" class coming up. I just put up flyers for it. Try it out.

What They Were Thinking

2007-07-17T20:37:50Z

I am Dante, taking the summer filmmakers workshop. This guy is Ben, who plays Jordan, one of the main characters. In this shot he just found a cave in prehistoric times and he took a giant millipede egg, which he thinks is a dinosaur egg. Actually, it's neither: It's an avocado! If you want to know why he's in prehistoric times, it's because he and his sister went into their grandfather's laboratory and accidentally turned on a time machine and went to the past!!

Being in the film workshop is crazy. We're standing on ladders with the cameras, the light is so hot you can cook on it, and the avocado is making me hungry!

Life in the Ring

2007-02-14T22:17:02Z

You know what I think we should have? I think we should have fake wrestling tournaments. We'll call it KWE (Kids' Wrestling Entertainment). It's about all these kids who love to watch wrestling. They could come up with wrestling names, and then become fake wrestlers.

The reason why I came up with this idea is because I love wrestling. I have loved wrestling since I was a little baby, even if I didn't understand some of the words. Wrestling might be a little inappropriate, but sometimes it can be fun to watch. So I think kids could do it, but not actually punch anybody's face or break any noses.

]]> Well, I've been thinking about this in my mind. Kids can become like their favorite wrestling superstars, but they'd have to add a "Jr." Because, say I wanted to be Rey Misterio. But I couldn't be Rey Misterio, because they already came up with that name. But I wanted to have the same name. Then, I could still have the same name if I added "Jr." at the end of the name.

I think that 826NYC should have a fake wrestling tournament. And if you want to be a wrestler, you have to write your name, your character's name, where he came from, what school does he go to... You have to write everything that involves you. You have to draw a picture, and draw a costume. Maybe you could donate your own clothes and they could change them into wrestling clothes. LIke you could donate old jacket, old shirt, and maybe they could change it into your costume. It's possible!

Tales of the 826NYC Super-Fish

2007-01-31T19:03:02Z

Long ago in a 40-gallon tank, fish swam blissfully through clear water and plastic plants. They lazed in their ceramic castle and burrowed in white pebbles. "This is the life," they said. "This is the life."

Soon after, the tank grew opaque and the fish began to die. What was turning the tank green? Bacteria? Photosynthesis? Nobody knows.

Two interns were sent on a mission to the pet store in order to save the six fish left. "It's the pH level!" The pet-store workers exclaimed. The interns returned to 826, emptied and filled ten gallons from the tank, and waited.

]]> Four days later, the tank grew even darker, bleaker. Hope was drained. They decided to take the final and most dangerous route: empty the entire fish tank.

After carefully draining the tank (which smelled of sushi) and placing the remaining fish in bowls, the interns refilled it with cool and clear water. In the evening, they placed the fish back in the tank, and watched them slowly float on their side, softly hitting the pebbled floor.

Their heads drooped. "It was bound to happen soon." They turned out the lights with little hope.

Upon returning in the morning, they stared at the tank in shock. All six fish were happily swimming about in their newly cleaned home. How could they possibly be alive?! Nobody knows.

All that's known is that these fish are Super-Fish.

Blog Entry 0021

2007-01-23T21:49:49Z

This is my first blog in like 4ever. Today I'm talking about my newest comic, Super Ultimate Book O'Fun. I really can't think of anything to talk about other than the fact that this comic is around 110 pages and that it might be downloaded on this blog (or in the writing gallery). But this is my first day back at after-school, so I'm pretty happy. Unfortunately, I have nothing else to say. Oh well.

Over and out.

Just Your Average Buisnnes Man

2006-12-20T19:45:00Z

For the first time since we opened our doors, the 826NYC staff has business cards. We have mixed emotions about this. On the one hand it's rather convenient to be able to hand someone our information when they ask without having to explain that our name comes from a street address in San Francisco. On the other hand there's something beautiful about being card-free—it means that we get to know people on a community level rather than a business one, that we know them primarily by their first names and from face-to-face interactions. I know it seems absurd to complain about the organization growing. We just hired our sixth (!) staffer and that means we're able to serve many more people beyond our community. It's just that when I asked Alex, age 8, to fill in the details of my card yesterday, it's funny that "Buisnnes Man" was the first thing that came to his mind. I always thought of us more as "Comunnitee Membrs".

Claymation Infestation!

2006-11-06T15:22:03Z

The first day of our new claymation workshop, called "Shaping a Story"
I shook nervously as a formidable group of would-be stop-animators
arrived, all smiles and USB ports, and presented to the class their
own films they had worked on independently. I sat back wide-eyed,
watching what made me feel like an inferior human being. I
re-examined my wasted childhood, filled with too many episodes of
"Full House" and clearly not enough time spent with at-home movie
editing software. They had iMovie, I had Skip It. They had creative
outlets and practical life skills, I had the neighborhood record for
the number of times I could jump over a pink plastic ball attached to
my ankle... But there was no time to lament years of lost opportunity;
we had a story to shape.

]]> Right away we got to work on a story-line-- now this was something I
could work with. I boldly seized the dry erase marker and began
crafting what the kids shouted to me into an elaborate system of
arrows, bubbles, and plot-line which was beautiful, if not legible.
From this brainstorm, we molded (ba-dum ching) a story filled with
heartbreak, adventure, comic genius and moveable parts. Imagine a
world inhabited-- nay infested-- by hundreds and hundreds of--you
guessed it: red bears with green polka dots.

We got down and dirty with the clay as soon as we established our main
characters-- a King (of the World), his humble servant (who may or may
not be trying to steal the throne), a rather round rather magical lady
who could possibly be in the business of Saving the Day, and of course
those darned speckled bears. At this stage I was still remotely at
ease as an authority figure, supervising polka dots and tail size as
our group became a veritable bear factory, churning out what would
soon become nothing short of a claymation infestation.

Since that first class everyone has been hard at work taking hundreds
of shots of still photographs which with the power of technology will
become an on-screen equivalent of a cartoon flip book, featuring not
only a beginning and a middle, but an end as well. I, however, have
been exiled from use of the camera, as my story-telling skills
instantly diminish behind a camera lens and I become more of a
paparazzi than an auteur, shooting what is euphemized
ever-so-graciously by Barbara as 'choppy,' but may better be described
as spastic; me flipping the camera in all directions-- sideways, up
and down, diagonal, zooming in and out with reckless abandon, the kids
wondering what the heck I'm doing and Barbara probably trying
desperately to think of other ways I can 'help out.'

Thankfully, the other volunteers and fellow animators have much
better control of their shutter button fingers and have been doing
wonderful things with these life-filled characters who were once only
lumps of clay (okay, plastic-wrapped bars of clay). I have since
learned my place in the workshop (the sidelines) and I won't give away
the ending just yet, but let's just say there's something for
everybody in this one. Stay tuned!

826Bob Dylan

2006-10-08T16:45:00Z

"We don't usually make interns clean but..." So this is how my time at 826NYC started. Scott and I ventured out to Staples, some cleaning supply store, and then grabbed a car to the Williamsburg library. On the way I had little idea of where I was going and little idea of who I was with, but was fully aware that I wherever we were headed was a) extremely messy and dirty b) hasn't been used for months and may or may not have been broken into and c) contains a conspiracy theorist's vault. When descended into the depths of the Williamsburg Public Library, I was surprised - it was pleasant down there. Yes, it was a little dirty, but nothing our new slick new lime Swifer Wet Mop couldn't handle.

]]> Yes, the markers, colored pencils, and crayons were disordered, some broken, some bleeding, some already bled dry. But it was nothing a couple coffee thermoses couldn't organize. And yes, there was a vault - clear of theorists for the time being. Perhaps the most unexpected and perplexing facet of the Williamsburg library basement was the plethora of Bob Dylan memorabilia. Dylan and Baez in homey picture frames, several copies of Dylan's Chronicles, a collage typically reserved for "hot-guy" teen-magazine cutouts but curiously only featuring Bob. While this struck me as strange, I couldn't help but imagine happy students down there - a space full of books, vaults, and Dylan seems to me like an okay place to learn.

The new Dear Abby and Rock the Space Croc take over Williamsburgh

2006-07-18T19:08:23Z

Though the tutors outweighed the tutored (in number and actual size), the ideas and creativity abounded in our cozy Superhero Annex.

James, our resident advice-giver and problem-solver, crafted insightful responses to letter littered with burning questions: "My roommates shaved my cats' hair without my permission. Now they look horrible! What do I do and what should I say to my roommates?" and "What is the meaning of life?" James also tackled some seemingly unsolvable problems: ("Help! I have no ideas!")

]]> Brothers Joseph and Kobe created a space adventure spawned from the word, "astrophysics." Their tale brought to life a one, Rock the Space Croc: a space crocodile with no arms, no mouth, no stomach and no space helmet. Despite a seemingly ineffective form, Rock can, and does, battle with Space Turtles and Space Clocks.

Some other highlights:
--Comic book creations, with one including homage to the timeless musical, Grease.
--Discussions of the grossest pizza toppings; some (un)mentionables: dirty gyms socks, blood, a cat with a mouse in its mouth, and toothpaste.

Even the afternoon's torrential rain couldn't wash us away.

Thank you to Best Life

2006-06-22T17:27:15Z

There are a few things we have to thank the folks at Best Life Magazine for. The first is that they threw a party on Tuesday night to celebrate the release of their summer reading issue, and to make the occassion memorable decided to give 826NYC a generous donation. The second thing is that not only did they throw a party, they know a thing or two about how to throw a party—especially choosing the food!—and so we had a wonderful time. And the last thing to thank them for is publishing original fiction. So few magazines of its kind publish fiction anymore and we think it's impressive to see one start. Rick Moody and Tom Perrotta both read from their new work and Best Life editor Steve Perrine was a wonderful host. We'd like to specifically thank Diane Burstein, Frederika Brookfield, Ashley Hackett, Stacey Fitzgerald, John Brodie, and 826 advisory board member Elissa Schappell for making the event happen. We were honored to be a part of it.

A Meeting with the Publisher of H. Mildew Books as told to Jason Amos

2006-06-08T16:13:08Z

"Yes, yes, do come in already. I have very little time for pleasantries, so if you if you could please find a seat. Yes, I much prefer my stenographers to practice the Gregg System over that redundant old Pitman method, but we shant get caught up in this rigmarole presently. Please, just take the following dictation, with punctuation, for the H. Mildew Books quarterly stockholders' newsletter.
I, Ms. Mildew, acting Publisher-In-Chief of H. Mildew Books, would like to announce a record number of titles released this year under our imprint, more titles, in fact, than any other publishing house in New York City. Furthermore, no other publishing house on either side of the East River delivers more titles by first time authors than H. Mildew Books.

]]>
What? I pray you will refrain from interrupting me in the future young man. No, such allegations are outright untruths. We do not use child labor working in sweatshop conditions to generate our myriad of titles. There is an air conditioner in the writing library, so you can see that story is purely fabrication. I don’t know where you could have been privy to such nasty rumors.
My son! We'll young man, let me tell you what. If I was you, and I thank the stars that I am not, I would keep much better company than H. Mildew Jr. The only interest my son has in this company is spending the interest from his trust. Now, can we get on? Thank you.
H. Mildew Books will make good on that promise by continuing our young writers workshop, a program that generates some ten to sixty books a month by promising new talent...
What, what, what?! You're interjections are becoming unceasingly tiring young man. More rumor and wild speculation? I'm beginning to wonder if you don't work for the Post. Once again, so that we might finally put this to an end right now, I am not the least bit unkind with my writers. Nevertheless, writers are creative people and prone to tangents and directionless chin-wagging, much like yourself. I am a businesswoman. My business is getting books out on the street. Sometimes my writers need some gentle prodding. I will have you know, some of my writers even thank me for it once they realized the quality of work it generates.
Just because I am vocal about the level of professionalism I expect, some of my less successful counterparts have labeled me a 'dragon lady'. There, does that satisfy your seemingly boundless curiosity? Good, because it is nearing lunch and I will bear no more of this lollygagging.
H. Mildew Books cultivates some of the finest, most talented young authors of our times. Their work has introduced our loyal readers to worlds beyond the scope of the mundane. From Robot Monkeys, Friendly Squids, Wrestling Turtles, and Swordfish that practice medicine, one thing we do not publish are mundane retreads of tired old formulas. What?! No! No more questions! I can't take these incessant interruptions. Young man, you are fired! Fired, fired, fired, fired, fired! Make haste when you leave my office, you wisenheimer!
Tell Rupert to send in my lunch when you go. And another stenographer."

Sonny Paine!

2006-05-28T18:42:43Z

We did it! Sonny Paine is here! Or, we did it a while ago, relaxed after proofing and copy editing over and over again, sent it to the printer after a slight hiatus, and the shipment wasn't held up by mafiosos! Not devoured by fire-spewing elephants on the interstate! No, the words found in Sonny Paine have not been disturbed in any such way, have arrived at 826's doorstep clean and fresh. There is a hard, physical copy made from binding and pulp and blood and gloss, and we are ecstatic.

]]> Already Sonny Paine-mania threatens to sweep the city. I've sold copies in Physics, in Mock Trial, at Big Nick's while attempting to wolf down a Sumo Burger (1 lb.+) , on the F train (not to Sonny Paine, though I'd like to show him), even to my doctor (I've grown three and a half inches, and I attribute that to Sonny Paine). We have a reading at the 826 Review release on Thursday. We may have another, more teenage-centric event during the summer (toss up between a pie-eating contest and a talent show). We are already planning the next issue. Sonny Paine's gonna apply to college. We are recruiting, so far only people whose names begin with Z. We are basking in our accomplishments without shame. Most importantly, only three of our friends looked at Sonny Paine, proffered in our trembling hands, with disdain. That's a record.

Who's Alex?

2006-05-08T14:37:50Z

Today I sorted through the 826 archives: birthdates, school numbers, names including Zippy, parents' names, story titles, etc. Many times I would call parents and ask them for permission to print their child's story in the upcoming Issue 2 of the 826NYC Review. Here's some of what happened: I called a man, who had no son and hung up without telling him the situation. This must have confused him greatly. Where is your son?! Tell me! What are you hiding? Fortunately, this only happened once.

]]> "Hello?"
"Hi, is this Alex’s Dad?"
"What? Who is Alex?"
"Your son? Is that your son?"
"My son?! I don't have a son!"
"So...is that a no?"
"Of course!"
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure?"
"You don't have a son named Alex? He wrote the stories 'Black Window' and 'Monkeys Are Back?' And they're going to come out in issue 2 of our review."
"You are crazy. You are crazy!"

SIR. I am merely searching for permission to print 'Black Widow' and 'Monkeys are Back.' I know Alex exists, and that he is out there somewhere. He is upstairs reading comic books.

Too Many

2006-04-30T16:16:30Z

Sometimes I think there are too many superheroes in Brooklyn. That's right, you heard me. Too many superheroes. Up and down the avenues of Park Slope, the doppelgangers double park their cars. The invisible women in their vintage invisible outfits are practically tripping over each other out there. It's all so mundanely supermundane.

Use your X-Ray vision, if you have X-Ray vision. Pass through the walls, you intangibles. Telepaths, project your disembodied consciousnesses into the apartments. See for yourself Brooklyn's dirty little secret. See the hundreds of teleporters crammed into cramped galley kitchens looking out through windows at the BQE, dreaming of escape.

]]> Tell me something, what good is having a secret identity when everybody shares in your secret? When nobody believes in identity anymore? When even the most convincing front inspires winks, nudges, and other conspiratorial gestures? Why bother hiding your powers in a place like that? What's the use in having special powers if having powers isn't special? It's enough to make a mutant want to be a normal, to want the secret identity to be real, to disappear into a place where secret identities still mean something.

Like I did. I put on the thick-framed eyeglasses. I parted my hair on the side, and I disappeared into the decidedly unsuper outer boroughs.

For a while I'd been a regular over at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co. There was this girl named Sarah who was writing a novel. She was fifteen, and Joan from 826 asked me if I'd be her editor. Definitely, no problem. Every week we'd sit at our table in the back of the writing center and talk for hours. We'd talk about words, 220 pages worth of words.

We talked about strategy. "So I've been thinking," I'd say, and Sarah would say, "OK." "You know how you ended that chapter with Spencer thinking about the color red?" "Yeah," she'd say. "Well what if you used that to segue into that flashback scene you had. The one when he's in the woods." "Oh yeah, the color red, the red berries, I could use the color to start the flashback…."

Eventually, Sarah would learn to immediately stop listening whenever I began a sentence with "Remember how last week I was talking about Faulkner?"

"Chris," Sarah explained one day after school had started up again, "I've been thinking about that change you suggested, the one about Spencer's name, and ultimately I think I'm going to keep it the way I originally had it." I pounded my desk. Being from Ikea, it trembled under the force of my fist. I learned an important lesson that day. Sometimes all the superpowers in the world just can't give you the only power that really matters: final control over someone else's novel.

I had this idea for a science fiction workshop called "Your First Galactic Empire," and the folks at 826NYC encouraged me to run with it. The workshop featured heated debates between me and a couple of thirteen-year-olds over the respective merits of the new Star Wars movies and the old Star Wars movies. We read from Ender's Game. We talked about light speed and the limits of space-travel, and we made elaborate Crayola marker drawings of the imperial insignia that would be emblazoned on the solar sails of our galactic galleons.

When our four week workshop neared its end, some of the students had asked if we could extend it for a few more weeks. They had inter-planetary kingdoms to raid, alien species to encounter. Their protagonists had trials and tribulations to overcome on that long, hard road toward inevitable triumph. Who would solve the mystery of the inter-stellar sun? But after all of those months volunteering as a tutor and editor, after teaching the workshop after work, I was exhausted. All that talk about outer-space left me completely spaced out.

There was a long period of exile. There was hair growth, beard stubble, and pages torn from my daily crossword calendar. And when enough months had gone by, I returned. Prodigal me. There were a few books I wanted to pick up, I wanted to see if Sarah's novel had been published yet, and my personal stockpile of antidote had run dangerously low.

At first, I wasn't all that surprised that folks didn't immediately recognize me. That was a good thing. My secret identity was doing its job. I had everybody right where I wanted them. Besides, there are too many superheroes in Brooklyn anyway. I collected my items and placed them on the dumb-waiter device that lifts them to purchasing platform. Prompted to begin, I cleared my throat and recited the oath, "I, Christopher Zic, also known as Galaxy Guinea Pig...." I looked around. Nothing.

"Ahem, ... Christopher Zic, also known as GALAXY GUINEA PIG...."

Still, nothing.

This was in March, and March it would seem is among the crueler months. There I was, in a place where I had spent so much of my free time, and no one knew how much of myself I had given. It seemed I had developed a new power, a new tool in my villain-vanquishing arsenal. I, Christopher Zic, also known as Galaxy Guinea Pig, had become invisible. Unknown. Completely, utterly unknown. I let that sink in. Ultimately, I told myself that if I was so super, if I could withstand the low oxygen levels in the upper atmosphere air and all that radiation out in space, surely I could withstand anonymity. Isn't that what I wanted, after all? I mean Jeez, there are too many superheroes in Brooklyn anyway. Right?

I paid for my books. I closed the dumb-waiter, and waited for my change. Suspended high above the store floor, the woman in the booth used her calculator and opened the drawer and lowered my change down to me, announcing that my books had been activated. Good thing too, if there’s one thing I hate it’s an inactive book. I stayed around for a while, loitering indecisively as is my fashion, and I hoped that nobody suspected me of being up to no good (*loitering indecisively is often used as a front for all sorts of nefarious deeds). Eventually the woman who had rung up my purchase walked up to me and said, "Oh, you. I remember you."

Now, I'm going to tell you something. In my months volunteering at the Supply Co. there were moments. I saw some things. I once watched a dying juice box bleed all over Anthony's homework knowing there was nothing I could do to stop the hemorrhaging. I've seen the disturbing effects that candy sometimes has on the young psyche, and I've struggled to keep more than a few conversations focused on homework. I watched paper airplanes soar over the fresh pine deck that had been built out back, and I wondered if that wasn't some kind of message from beyond about the afterlife. But among all of these powerful moments, that one moment stands out. "Oh, you. I remember you." Sometimes it's nice to be one of many. To belong somewhere.

Even with all of the powers that a superhero might have - with the flying in the air and the lasers shooting out of the eyes - and no matter how powerful a superhero is, there's one power that a superhero can't have on his/her/its own. No, not even the Beyonder. You just can't belong when you're by yourself. And I guess that's what kept Wonder Woman and Hawkman coming back to the Hall of Justice. What kept the enrollment applications coming in to Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, with their insincere, unreadable personal statements. At least, that's what keeps me coming back to Brooklyn. I belong among the too many superheroes.

Besides. If not for Brooklyn and its fabled Superhero Supply Co., where would I stock up on antidote?