Tag Archives: Like

Occupy Wall Street

Posted on
Reply

Noun: Occupy Wall Street. Opinion: Yup. OK.

Photo credit: The Washington Post

I live right by Zuccotti Park where the protesters have set up camp, and I’ve lived in the area since it was called Liberty Plaza—which may at first seem like a more fitting appellation but seeing as John Zuccotti made $1.2M for napping during an annual board meeting in 2008, maybe its current name isn’t irrelevant.  To be fair, I don’t actually know if he napped, I just assume that because he was 72 years old.  To be even more fair, I don’t actually know if he bothered attending the meeting, he may have voted in absentia.  Given what I know about septuagenarians, however, I will stand by my assumption that whether or not he was in attendance, John Zuccotti was somewhere napping.

I’m sure he’s a very nice man.

We just got started and I’m already off course.  That supercilious English bitch on my GPS exasperatedly tells me she’s recalculating, like she’s so much smarter than I am, which I guess she is so I’m changing the voice options. Slut. But as long as I’m way out here, I want to say something about the dirty hippies that people are saying comprise the majority of protesters.  Others say they are being misrepresented by the media, and that most of the protesters are your average, disfranchised, college-educated American. To this small, endearing voice of impassioned wisdom, I say: actually, they are mostly dirty hippies. The average Americans you’re seeing are the reporters covering the story.

Which is not to say that dirty hippies don’t have something valuable to contribute. And maybe some of them started out more hippie than dirty, but a month of living in a tent pushed them over.  Maybe they were already dirty, but the act of carrying a cardboard sign transformed their image from pointlessly filthy to a hippie with a mission.

The Aw-strine accented voice on my GPS tells me we’re on the fair dinkum pass, she’ll be right, reckons we’ll be out of the woopwoop in seven donkey’s years.  I’m as certain about what that means as I am about what the protesters want. They carry so many signs, and 99% of them make them sound like whiny potheads on an angry trip—like your brother-in-law, the one who’s been sleeping on your couch the past eleven weeks and who never offers to pay for the groceries he blithely consumes and shares with his cat. If you were to make some gentle suggestions about his life choices, you’re sure to get some unfocused but extensive belligerence roughly directed at you.

But when it comes to the 1 remaining %, I’m on your side. Probably. Maybe not. Honestly, it’s hard to tell.

I get that it’s hard for the protesters to fight an enemy they can’t identify. I mean, this is an industry that calls itself Wall Street, when basically the only investment bank that still resides there is German (and we can all rest assured Deutsche Bank is paying taxes—big, juicy, European ones). This is an industry that specializes in investing money but charges large fees to pay themselves salaries because they can’t make enough money through investing money. It would be like selling eggs, but you can’t produce enough eggs, so you ask to be paid in chickens in return for an egg when any honest farmer would be eating eggs from his own damn chickens. This is an industry, to paraphrase Buffett, where men travel in limos to take advice from brokers who ride the subway. So much of Wall Street is really fucked up and arbitrary.

And then there’s all that math, which can be confusing. Wall Street has a huge advantage in a country that still debates the factual basis of evolution. We’re not that bright. Numbers are amazingly tractable to obfuscation and Wall Street exploits them to its full advantage. Sometimes, they even just make them up! Based on no fundamental truth at all! But we don’t notice, because it’s hard to tell when they do that.

There’s also no check or balance to them. The obvious assumption is that the government is watching them. But the government turns out to be peopled by those who worked on Wall Street, because apparently all that math and fuckery takes an insider to understand. So Obama, who as Commander-in-Chief needs to have expertise in politics and human rights law and oil pricing and environmental carcinogens and how not to piss off the Chinese and the Torah decides to delegate, of all things, this. So he’s like, “anyone who understands this shit, raise your hands.” And the only people who raised their hands worked on Wall Street. And then it occurred to him to talk to other people, like Congressmen, to whom he said “find out if this shit is legal” and since they didn’t really know, they went and asked “does anyone know if this shit is legal?” And the only people who raised their hands worked on Wall Street and they said, why, yes, yup, it sure was legal, yessir. And even if it were all legit and above-board, the way everyone went about it was just weird and wrong and did nothing to make the process more transparent, and in a bucket already filled with dumb they added their own interminable supply of stupid.

No one comes out well here, by the way. One group of people probably did illegal and/or immoral things. These illegal and/or immoral things led to another group of people, who were by parts unlucky, unaware, victims of an underfunded public education system that made them bad at math—even maybe irresponsible! Or maybe completely innocent and undeserving!—but all in a legal way, to lose jobs and savings and security and opportunities. And a third group of people, who pledged to work in the second group of people’s interest, got gun-shy about doing anything because the first group is, in fact, essential to ensuring that the third group keep their jobs—not only/necessarily because they are being paid off, but because all three groups are more interdependent and fungible than people think. The first group is the aorta, and the second group is the heart and needs the aorta operated on, and the third group doesn’t have a medical degree.

The third group may very well be right that if they attempt surgery they’ll fuck it up and kill the patient. So, it recommends diet and exercise, hoping the issue will go away. It probably won’t, by the way. We really do need it operated on. We need the aorta to work. It shouldn’t be removed, it shouldn’t be ignored, it should be made to work. To anyone on either side who thinks that the heart can survive without it or vice-versa, I suggest you reconsider.

The GPS just rattled something off in Spanish; I’m assuming it said we’re close to our destination. So, okay, it’s all very confusing and a real, honest, legitimate clusterfuck. Maybe that’s why none of these protesters can explain what they want in an effective manner. “We’re the 99%”? Really? Is that a threat? Besides, to call themselves the 99% is a little disingenuous, as the working poor raise an eyebrow at being included in a statistic they were pointedly left out of before.  As far as they are concerned, there is still a large gap separating them and the middle class.

But they need the middle class.  If you’re not in the 1%, you need the middle class.  The existence of a healthy middle class suggests that there is fluidity between the strata. It means there is a pathway from the bottom to the top.  It is the sign of a thriving capitalistic democracy—not everyone is rich, but everyone contributes and has a say. A large, succulent middle class is where small businesses come from, where competition thrives, where innovation is born.  Even a vast majority of those we’d consider rich would benefit from this socioeconomic lubrication; it opens up the top to them, it validates their ambitions. The problem is, where there is a hill to climb up there is a slope to slide down.  And if you have a lot to lose, you’d rather seize the system and press pause on all this bustling interchange.

This country doesn’t appreciate its middle class.  The average American sees his place in the middle class as a temporary layover to the day he wins the lottery.  He’s so concerned about protecting those imaginary winnings he’ll even vote against his present self-interest.  We take the middle class for granted.  There are other countries that work hard to ensure the life of the middle class is pleasant and livable—they offer health benefits and work week limits and free colleges and day care and good bakeries.  Not us; if you can’t provide these things for yourself, you don’t deserve them.  We hate the middle class.  Liberals think they’re fundamentalist bourgeois, conservatives think they’re unionized wangs, everyone thinks they’re underachieving yokels. We abhor the middle class.

And now the middle class is coming out of this self-loathing. It’s occurring to us that we’ll never be rich, not like this.  All that stuff that happened in the last few years, even more—the frontal lobe may have forgotten WorldCom, Enron and Tyco, the dot-com bubble, the S&L scandal, but they’re imprinted in the sulky depths of our reptile brain—slashed into the rickety trust that was built between the haves and have-nots. How is it that these shitheads get to pull our collective dick every time they make a mistake?  And how is it that we have to pay their bail?  They never shared the wealth when they had it, why is it my asshole that gets raw and sore when they lose it? Every! Single! Fucking! Time!

Maybe we sense we’re being frozen out of being even middle class so we’re finally driven to protect it.  Maybe we could lead good lives in the middle class, if only there were certain systemic reinforcements put in place that would ensure its sustainability. Maybe if we were given the vast majority of the nation’s wealth, we would “create jobs,” too—us and a flock of masturbating ducks, because wealth begets economic activity like economic activity begets a big fucking DUH. Maybe the rich aren’t so special and we didn’t deserve their contempt after all. Maybe we’re starting to think that if there is a class of Americans who should be provided greater protection and preferential treatment, it’s the middle class.  Maybe this is what Occupy Wall Street is calling for, maybe this is why their message is so diffuse—it’s a motion for a concept of society, a model of civilization, which is more complex and difficult than can be expressed on a poster board held by a dirty hippie.

When I was a kid sometimes my older brother and his friends would make me feel left out. My response was often to launch from a running start, land on one of their backs like a monkey, and windmill my arms to batter my fists against their heads in a violent bid for attention. My brother would then calmly pluck me off, avoid making eye contact, toss me out of the room and close the door in my face. This is exactly how it is recommended you should handle a deranged monkey. For my part, in retrospect, my behavior seems an unlikely way to win anyone over. I didn’t get what I wanted, which was to be included. But, as I stood on the other side of the door, stomping my feet and screaming until birds flew into power lines on purpose, everyone knew, for what it was worth, that the monkey was mad.

The voice on the GPS is in that neutral, God-Bless-American accent of the Mid-Atlantic and syndicated sitcoms. It’s telling me that we’re very, very far from our destination. But at least we’re pointed in the right direction and, with some guidance, we might even make it there.

The Judgmentor Jumble

Posted on
2

Noun: Various.  Opinions: Varied.

Come play a game with me!  Sit in the middle of the room with wipeable tiles and scooch your butt cheeks across from mine.   Sometimes there are too many things to judge and simply not enough time.  During these periods of high judgmentable activity, you’re going to spit out nouns at me and I’m going to knee-jerk a reaction all free-association style.  I get three passes.  You get ten seconds to think of another noun.  Whoever quits first loses.  Winner gets Tootsie Pop.

Gay teen suicides: Can we first of all agree that these are tragic regardless of the preceding adjective?  As I’m certain there are fat teen suicides and sad teen suicides and straight-but-perceived-weird-in-other-ways teen suicides every day.  The adjective is not what binds these events together—social rejection is.  Isolation is.  Cruelty is.  The fact that being gay triggers these things is a problem.  That these things are rampant is a societal crisis—bullying is not the way to react to people we dislike or disagree with.  Even if you don’t co-sign someone’s lifestyle, you cannot, must not turn a blind eye to the moral bankruptcy latent in the souls of kids who tease to torture.  It is at least a cavity that can be treated, as they are still young; but this means you are obligated to do just that.  Hate.

Streaker at Obama rally:  Was he doing it for money?  Was it for his sick sister?  Was he protesting clothes?  Talking heads psychoanalyze streaker on news shows.  My mother has a more succinct diagnosis.  “It seems,” she says, “he is naughty.”  My mother is always right.  Naughty people are often naked, or vice versa, either way they are more easily identified when they are publicly nude.  Indifferent.

Syncing (noun credit: Andres): It’s easy to do, takes only a couple of clicks, and is good for you.  I never do it, it’s still a pain in the ass.  I’ve been listening to effing Keane for three years.  Hate.

Ginni Thomas: I give women two and a half more generations of a free pass to release themselves from social and financial dependence on their husbands and start being accountable for the choices they make in marriage.  Deny while you can, ladies.  The day’s coming when succeeding Judgmentors will brutally enforce your honesty and make you stop clawing at each other in defense of a man who should be able to live up to his own damn honor.   Indifferent.

Hillary Rodham Clinton: Related, but dissimilar.  I love women who look like they’ll care of it when shit gets real.  I’ll make a run for the panic room and when I re-emerge I’m pretty certain the zombie apocalypse will have been managed to a desirable outcome.  She’ll have played dirty, for sure, but it will be for the right cause and that doesn’t bother me.  Love.

Chipotle (noun credit: Lokesh): I know I’m in the minority on this but this shit just doesn’t curl my toes.  Their chips are unforgivable.  Smart business model, though, so, you know, props for that, I guess.  Hmm.  *scratch neck, stare off into space*  Indifferent.

Rick Sanchez: Have you heard about this shit?  Pete Dominick got away with murder in the press, but only because Rick Sanchez eclipsed him with the immense dimensions of his stupidity.  Making generalized remarks about anyone, like they both did, in a public forum is something less than wise.   Calling Jon Stewart names just sets you up—dude, he’s got an entire staff of comedy writers and you only have your overextended ego staying up at night trembling in a scotch-induced rage.  And look what you came up with.  He’s a “bigot.”  That’s the best you could do.  Sad.  Look, this wasn’t just a Cuban-American journalist making provoking remarks about Jews in the media—there were a lot of layers here and it was a doomed debate.   They stumbled into something too big and serious and complex for them and made a mess of things like the sloppy-thinking bitches they are.  It was like monkeys eating oatmeal with forks.  Facepalm.

Starbucks (noun credit: Katherine): I parked my ass in one of these crack dens recently and had a pleasant enough time.  Until the United States adopts the sidewalk café model of European cities this serves as a completely inadequate substitute in terms of both ambiance and coffee quality but it’s the only thing we got.  Being snobby/counterculture/anticorporate about Starbucks was so 2003, get over it.  My productivity level was pretty low but the sugar high from their surprisingly tasty wee pink sparkly donuts made me feel like I was tearing my spreadsheet up.  Like.

Mustard (noun credit: Sarah): Dijon.  Smooth.  End of fucking story!  No grainy shit!  No yellow squeeze bottle!  Dijon, goddamn it!  Nothing else passes must…er.  Love.

OK, I’m done, you win.  Keep returning for another edition of the Judgmentor Jumble!  Check your local listings.

Extroverts

Posted on
1

Noun: Extroverts.  Opinion: Like.

Is vs Es

If you went to either my high school or university, you have taken the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator personality assessment test anywhere between three to seventeen trillion times.  The purpose behind the test is…I dunno.  Ostensibly, so that we would understand…something…having to do with wazzit…and apply it to fuckamajig…no.  I really don’t know.  Its original application was to help people determine compatible job functions, but that was never the way we used it.  It allowed for bragging rights (“Andrew Jackson was an ESTJ, too!”) but otherwise was just a way to keep suburban kids off the streets for the thirteen hours or so it took to take the test.  I’m pretty sure somewhere along the way the MBTI test met the zodiac in a bar, got drunk, hooked up, and nine months later out came eHarmony.

There are four different categories the test measures, each representing a dichotomy—no one really remembers what any of them stand for except for the first, which is the Extraversion-Introversion attitude scale.  In college, one professor thought it would be funny to separate the class into sections according to test result and have a West Side Story face-off between the Es and the Is.  When asked what the Es thought of the Is, the most E of all the Es, a plain, graceless girl with a thunderous voice, roared her frustration in trying to draw an I out of his or her shell, and concluded in her resounding bellow that introverts “ARE HARD TO TALK TO.”  When the professor asked the Is for their estimation of Es, after a period of silence, a small voice piped up from the back: “they’re hard to talk to.”

I tend to fall somewhere in the middle, but my inherent sympathies always lean toward introverts.  I concur that they can be very hard to talk to.  Cagey, sensitive, and eternally couching what they say in diplomatic hoo-ha, you have the sense that you are never getting a clear picture of their real opinions or true selves.  Put one of these characters in front of an extrovert, however, and you may understand why; from the introvert’s perspective, conversation with an extrovert is the equivalent to an intense current of verbal diarrhea spewed from a fire hose.  If you ever find yourself inundated in a surging flow of shit, you would hesitate to open your mouth, too (I’ll give you a moment to get over that visual here).  Americans are famously extroverted and deeply unforgiving of introverts as creepy or poorly socialized; this is risibly unfair and just goes to show how being an attention whore can completely deplete you of any sense of nuance or observational acumen.  OH.  KAY.  I admit, that was a pretty broad stroke I just painted (it was the extrovert in me).

Forseriouslythough, some of my favorite people are extroverts.  If you are lucky enough to find someone who pairs his outgoing tendencies with intelligent thoughtfulness, you’ve just met one of the most lovely, agreeable people alive.  His outward energy is tempered by inner reflection, and he is thus about as perfect a companion as exists…he’s fun at parties but context-appropriate, self-aware but generously attentive.  Introverts can’t help but feel wistful in his presence—they can only hope to achieve the kind of emotional bravery that comes so easily to an insightful extrovert.  I’d marry this guy in a heartbeat, but the two I know are both gay (make of that what you will).  He’s kind, he’s friendly, but most importantly, he’s so, so easy to talk to.

Meat

Posted on
Reply

Noun: Meat.  Opinion: Like.

meat

I am not a picky eater.  In fact, I’m the total opposite–I’m a promiscuous food slut.  My entire family comprises food sluts.  We’re big eaters who will often have three or four different regional cuisines served during an average family meal.  And nary a meal is served that isn’t centered around a protein (a modern euphemism used for meat…yeah, unless you’re vegan you’re not eating more soy than my Asian ass, so don’t front).  My mother came from a family of five kids who were all referred to as tiger cubs, if that gives you an idea of how devoutly carnivorous my roots are.  My nomadic parents incorporated the culinary heritage of three different continents, and thus I am not squeamish about ingesting most anything…whether it has the funk of a jock strap or still has its head attached, I’ll eat it.  And I’ll probably like it.

And yet meat is the one food group that I still struggle with.  Not in terms of eating it, I have a stomach of iron; or enjoying it, I drool at the aromatic hint of roasted beast.  I’m still struggling with coming up with a good argument for killing sentient animals for my own benefit.  I do it, anyway, I just want to be absolved in order to shut my head up.

I am not conflicted about whether it’s natural for people to eat meat or not.  I am conflicted as to whether it is moral for us to.  Natural law, as I have alluded to in previous posts, doesn’t apply to morality–behaving according to our collective conscience has almost nothing to do with our reptilian brain but resides in our more highly evolved and recently developed frontal lobes.  Morality largely emerged as a way to keep our impulses in check; morality isn’t supposed to be about whether it’s convenient or healthy for us, it’s about what we agree to and internalize as good and right.  Holding in your pee is supposed to be very bad for your kidneys, but you do it, yes?  (Please say yes).  Murder is pretty natural, too, but we came up with the conceit of civilization to get away from that kind of stuff (are you listening, Southeast DC?).  Morality applies to how we treat each other, how we have sex, how we deal with death–it is not a stretch to believe that it applies to what we eat (case in point: cannibalism).  If what we eat is other animals, particularly ones with central nervous systems that allow them to feel physical pain and limbic brains that enable them to feel emotional pain, what does that say about our appetite for brutality and tolerance for suffering?  Yeah, yeah, I know…all of Darfur just gave me the middle finger.

I’ve heard all the usual omnivorean arguments: human suffering comes before animal suffering, humans are superior and under separate jurisdiction from animals, we have bigger problems to worry about, animals don’t feel pain the way we do.  If you buy into any of the above and it works for you, you may go now, I’m sure you have laundry or something to do.  I’m not sold, though.  Some of these arguments are completely specious, while others just feel a little…incomplete.  None of them resonate with the decisive ring of self-evident truths, the way an inarguable statement does when it enters the ear.  Such as the following: “the sun will rise tomorrow,” “Richmond is the capital of Virginia,” or “Jimmy Carter means well.”

No, I have yet to hear an argument that is convincing enough to eradicate the doubt and conflict I experience when I see the tender visage of a wee piglet.  Have you seen piglets?  They’re like puppies, only naked and thus more vulnerable, and pink and thus more delicate.  Farm animals only exist because we make them exist; these are not animals that would stand a snowball’s chance in Hell out in the wild.  The least we can do is behave as proper stewards for them until we guillotine their heads off.

But I’m not going to go off on buying grass-finished this and free-range that (I’m more sick of it than you are), because even that is an incomplete argument.  The fact is we kill animals that we can be pretty sure feel it, and we wouldn’t want the same thing done to ourselves.  It’s a bitchy thing to do, full stop–trying to ignore that fact by buying packaged chicken breast that hold no resemblance to a living entity doesn’t make it any less true.  Trying to make yourself feel better about your hypocrisy doesn’t add any more truth or decency to the universe, so you might as well own to what it is you’re doing.  Yet animals’ sweet flesh is about the most delectable thing on this planet (hold up while I gurgle on my own saliva) and, more importantly, meat has ineradicable symbolic significance as the center of religious sacrifice and communal values.  This, too, carries moral weight, and these two mandates are, at least for me at this particular nanosecond, not reconcilable.  I don’t foresee myself eliminating meat from my diet anytime soon.  This is just going to be one of those things that I will continue to be conflicted about, and I am going to have to live with that.

Suits

Posted on
Reply

Noun: Suits.  Opinion: Like.

Noun credit: David.

ST/FASHION17

I grew up around suits.  My mother preferred my father in suits and insisted he wear one as often as appropriate, lest he default to golf shirts and tennis socks pulled up his calves as far as they would go.  They became part of my wardrobe at a fairly early age given my corporate background—to this day I appreciate the prêt-a-porter feature of a pre-coordinated outfit.  But women’s suits are still extensions of female fashion, rife with sexual overtones and gender bias.  Men’s suits are a little different.  There is an element of sexuality for sure, but it’s one that is seen through the lens of power and control—the only fashion statement a man can make that fully resonates across all audiences.

The suit’s role is to efface your individuality; they have a manner of leeching the personality right out of the dude wearing it.  This is exactly the point of any uniform—that is why they can bestow completely unmerited attributes to the wearer in a given context.  A white doctor’s jacket, a pilot uniform, military fatigues—you treat clothing items, rather than people, differently.  Suits confer authority to fat, white politicians who naked would look like beached jellyfish.  They cover an otherwise wretchedly insecure and unnoticed man-child in a coat of legitimacy.  They render toothless convicts appropriate for court hearings.  Hell, we’d trust a Wall Street intern with the very foundations of our economy if he’s wearing the right Ferragamo tie.

The power of the suit is so potent that it can even impart its might onto children.  A few years ago Hickey Freeman ran a campaign with two ten year-old boys in blazers and pocket squares.  They are impeccably dressed, yes, but the models also somehow adopted the body language of contemporaneous Bear Stearns managing directors.  In one ad, one child stood with hands in his pockets, back slightly arched in the way men do when they’re leading with their groins. The other struck a Hasselhoffian pose, raping the camera woman with his eyes.  If either of these kids were in age-appropriate pants stained with Kool-Aid the image wouldn’t have been nearly as frightening; in suits, however, they looked like miniature Michael Skakels in training.  It was one of the most jarring visuals I had ever seen and made my kneecaps sweat.

But that is the dark side of the suit.  A well-cut suit can impart an elegance and sophistication that can be irresistible.  Accessorize it with confidence, broad shoulders and a terpsichorean grace and you’d have to fight off women (and men) with large sticks.  Watch Fred Astaire just standing still in a tux and you forget he’s actually kind of a balding, goofy-looking man (see him move and you’re begging to have his babies).  The suit’s personality-amputating influence on your image is ear-piercingly loud—it takes a whole lot of attitude to upstage it.  But any man who manages to comes across as more authoritative, more charismatic and more damn sexy than the guy who’s allowing the suit to wear him instead of the other way around.

Internet porn-addiction hasn’t been well-documented among women, but I suspect it’s because researchers are looking at the wrong sites.  Check out your girlfriend’s web-browsing history.  If you see a lot of Hugo Boss coming up, it may be time to invest in a good suit.  Then straighten up, loosen up, and work it, bro.

Driving

Posted on
Reply

Noun: Driving.  Opinion: Like.

driving

Sorry for the late post, readers (I heart y’all!  Say woot!).  I didn’t have access to the internet last night and was on the Jersey Turnpike for most of the day.  I jousted mightily on my trusted steed against sleepy truck drivers, psychopathic soccer moms, and unbearably ghetto rest stops.  All the while negotiating bumper to bumper traffic in a stick (for the two of you out there who drive a manual, you know my pain).  We love our cars, America.  We love to drive them like bloodthirsty maniacs even more.

I think it is important for us to reflect on the difference between aggressive and bad drivers.  If we’re to be honest with ourselves, it really comes down to gender.  A male driver steering recklessly is an asshole; a female one is an idiot.  An Asian female fulfills all kinds of racial stereotypes that we won’t go into here, but it might be useful to consider whether the legitimacy of aggressiveness is in proportion to our perceptions of how much rage is acceptable in our typecasts.  Mullet-sporting yokel in a pick-up?  Ten points on the scale of tolerable fury.  Demure lady in kimono?  One point.  Come on!

I am both an aggressive and bad driver (I pride myself on being a Renaissance woman).  I didn’t always used to be bad.  Well, I started out really bad, as most license-eligible sixteen year-olds are (we should really reconsider that age).  But having developed my skillz in one of the most congested metropolitan areas of the East Coast, I became quite good.  In such environments, intelligent driving often has a component of hostility involved; the most dangerous drivers are those who infuriate everyone else by being overly defensive.  I had the reflexes of a cat, I tell you.  But then, after years of living in Manhattan where owning a car is the economic equivalent to having seven kids, my dexterity took a hit.  My road rage, however, did not.  I think this means that it is no longer safe for me to live anywhere other than an urban center with public transportation.

Self-awareness is everything.  And this goes for those of you who have internalized the prejudice against women drivers (that includes you women).  I want all of us to agree to this exercise next time we’re on the road…when a driver of the male persuasion performs an act that incites your wrath, I want you to call him a “STUPID BITCH” at the top of your lungs (flipping tables and labeling him a “PROSTITUTION WHORE” is extra credit if you’re on the Jersey Turnpike).  If a female driver commits an unforgivably annoying offense, call her a “HOMICIDAL JACKASS” but yield to her just in case she’s carrying a piece in her vehicle.  And for an entirely gender neutral curse, go with my friend’s trusted standby: “MAY YOU NEVER HAVE ANOTHER ORGASM FOR THE NEXT SEVEN YEARS!”  I don’t use this one myself, but it comes highly recommended.  Unless I’m the one who cut you off without signaling.

Sudoku

Posted on
Reply

Noun: Sudoku.  Opinion: Like.

sudoku

Man, this is an addictive game.  I have an app on my iPhone that lets me play seven free games a day in order of increasing difficulty, and I don’t think I’ve missed a day since downloading it.  It will also tell me how well I do in comparison to other players, and I kill in certain levels.  I’ll get in the 100th percentile, which is the best grade I’ve earned in anything since kindergarten.  I savor the idea of making faceless strangers my Sudoku bitches.  Yes, it’s pointless.  But in my head I’m beating Bill Gates, who strikes me very much as a Sudoku slut.

It’s a futile exercise, developing skills that are relevant to nothing.  Kind of like getting a good score on the SATs.  I used to be a crossword fan, all wordy and brainy and chuckling softly when the editor would include some groan-worthy bon mot.  Four letter word for tortilla dough?  Peso!  Oh, Will Shortz, you rascal.

But no longer, I now serve at the altar of Sudoku.  It’s like math but easier, yet you still have all the payoff of solving a problem.  And you can think about other things while playing, a factor that played heavily into my Minesweeper addiction in high school.  I once spent an all-nighter catatonically clicking away on the computer.  What the frig was I thinking about?  I dunno, probably sandwiches.  I was fifteen, hungry all the time, and hadn’t yet internalized body issues.  Anywhatever, it sucks you in.

I was indifferent to Sudoku when my brother picked it up.  He would take the comics section of the Washington Post where the games were printed, slay the puzzle in about two minutes, then pass it over to me where I would work on the crossword for the next seven hours.  But like all addictions, it caught me quite unawares.  And today, a day doesn’t feel whole without a hit.

Those of you with kids and jobs probably think this is indulgent bullshit for those with too much time.  Heh.  Yeah, it is.

Karaoke

Posted on
Reply

Noun: Karaoke.  Opinion: Like.

Noun credit: Erica.

karaoke

Do you remember the first time you heard your voice over a mic?  Not just your speaking voice which (we’ve all been there) has been poorly represented in your own head and should layoff its entire PR department, but your singing voice.  Yeah.  Right?  I’ll give you a moment to laugh at your own ass since I’m not there to do it for you.

My first time was probably in the sixth grade during the school musical when I was miscast in the ingénue role.  I sang a high E into the mic and immediately started looking around.  Who was that?  Girlfriend needs to shut her cry hole.  It never really got better since I had no idea what I was doing.  People left the school gym after the performance saying “she was a l’il pitchy, dawg, yo.”

Don’t you worry, I immediately retired from the stage.  But these days, that initial moment is my favorite part of the karaoke experience.  Watching some jackass go up there, start singing, and looking at their expression go from “watch me kill this, bitches” to “…the fuck?”  And these are the people I like.  I will always grade on a curve for someone who has the self-awareness to be properly embarrassed, they are probably solid folk.  The ones I can’t stand are those who don’t know they’re an insult to noise everywhere and rock out like they’re doing us some kind of favor.  I’ve seen many a liquored up investment banker act like they’re the second coming of Freddie Mercury…dude.  You’re wearing khakis and a blue button-down.  Sporting a faux-hawk does not make you a rock star.  Sit down.

I like the ones who can actually sing even less.  This is not the venue for them.  There is an egalitarian quality to karaoke and their presence changes the dynamic of the room.  It’s like Cap’n Crunch showing up in full regalia to your stoop party where everyone’s wearing wife-beaters and cut-off jeans.  Karaoke is for the people—and most of us can’t sing.  But more than that, I think karaoke reminds us that most of us have no idea what we sound like.  Take it further—most of us have no idea what we look like, either.  We have no idea how we come across to other people.  The voice we hear in our head when we talk is not the voice other people hear—the words aren’t what you think you’re saying—the impact they have is not what you intended.  I’m not sure if this means we should give up and care less about what other people think or be more careful about what we do.  Probably a little bit of both.

It’s hella fun, though.  Singing at the top of your lungs, singing for the nosebleeds in the back, singing a Belinda Carlisle song you haven’t heard since the 80s and making up the lyrics as you go along—there’s no better catharsis.  And putting yourself out there to be laughed at, bless.  We should all do it as often as possible, for any reason whatsoever.  Like, today, I just heard that Lisa Loeb got herself knocked up (true story).  Sing it with me, now…SO I TURNED THE RADIO ON, I TURNED THE RADIO UP, AND THIS WOMAN WAS SINGING MY SOOOOONG…

Taxis

Posted on
Reply

Noun: Taxis.  Opinion: Like.

taxis

There are times in New York when the prospect of getting on the subway seems as palatable as a cavity search.  Luckily for those of us who don’t enjoy violating bodily abuse (no judgment) the city provides a fleet of easily identifiable vehicles for what is considered a relatively good deal.  Taking a cab is like eating cake—it’s a treat, not for everyday, but sometimes damn necessary.

For the uninitiated, here are the basics: if the light is on, the cab is available.  If the light is off, it is occupied.  If the light is on but looks funny because the two illegible symbols to the side of the cab number are lit, the cab is off-duty.  These may pick you up, but they’ll roll down the window first to ask where you’re going (a practice otherwise considered illegal for all kinds of squirmy, racially-charged reasons…INSERT PREGNANT PAUSE HERE)—if you’re on their way, they’ll take you as the last fare of their shift.  Cabs are hard to get when the shift changes, when it’s raining, and during rush (among other situational factors, that is…INSERT ANOTHER PREGNANT PAUSE HERE).  But they’ll fight to get to you first if you have a suitcase on you, in the hopes you’re going to one of the airports (don’t take it personally when they act disappointed that you only need to go to Penn Station).

The variable with the greatest impact on your cab-riding experience is the driver.  I have noted over the many years certain traits that mark the personality of the taxi operator.  Brace yourself.  These generalizations may just sweep you off with them (note that this is what pregnant pauses usually give birth to):

South Asian:  Frequently former engineers and smarter than you are.  Will occasionally tell you how much you should tip them, especially if they picked you up while off-duty.

White (with accent):  Also highly educated, hailing most often from Eastern Europe.  Aggressive drivers prone to cursing at others in native language.  Wear your seat belt with these.

White (no accent):  Chatty.  Like to tell you about the celebrities they’ve picked up.  Always manage to get stuck in traffic.

Women:  Rare.  Cagier than most.  Careful drivers, making the chances of hitting a pedestrian while you’re in the car less likely.  Note the bar is not set very high on that particular point of reference.

East Asian:  Rare.  In over a decade of cab riding, I have only spotted a few in the wild.  They don’t talk much and won’t ask any questions, if you’re into that kind of thing.

West Indian:  Most likely to have talk radio on and speak on the phone at the same time.

African:  Fond of changing lanes.  Be wary if you get motion sick.

African-American:  Also quite rare.  Most interesting conversationalists, if you get one willing to talk.  Not afraid to laugh at you if you are or come off as a tourist.

Young:  Generally incompetent.  Will send you over the edge as you think of ten better alternative routes that would have delivered you to your destination faster.  Pouty when you tip them poorly.

Old:  Couldn’t care less you’re in the back seat but can’t wait to get you out.

Turban (dastar)-wearing:  My favorite.  Never had a bad experience with a Sikh.  Professional, unfussy and get you to Point B with minimal commotion.

And just to serve me right for that completely offensive exercise, every single cab driver I have going forward will not only contradict those stereotypes but will cheat me royally.

Gossip

Posted on
1

Noun: Gossip.  Opinion: Like.

Far Side

I went to a small graduate program where by the end of your tenure you basically knew everyone by sight and name.  We were also deep to our armpits in nowhereness, the kind of small New England town where the local Japanese restaurant was run by Koreans figuring no one knew any better.  Isolation and an excess of free time made for an absorbing mix of small town friendliness and a disproportionate interest in what every bitch was up to.

My parents have stories of getting their graduate degrees in Europe during the 60s, spending evenings in smoky cafes discussing the imponderables of life.  Sartre was still a significant figure in popular philosophy, and hours were spent deliberating on how to reconcile the meaninglessness of life and the moral imperatives of human conduct.  They would speak of the role of youth in guiding governmental policy and social culture.  They spoke of art and music and history.  Yeah.  We didn’t do any of that.

You’d think that in walking the hallowed halls of a respected institution constructed in buttloads of red brick we would be inspired by the annals of intellectual yore.  We weren’t.  We didn’t talk about politics, we didn’t talk about philosophy, we didn’t exchange chicken recipes.  We talked about each other.  And how!  I have waaaay too much completely uncorroborated shit on these people, as they do on me.  There was one guy who was reported to be a hermaphrodite circus performer with a meth habit and two illegitimate kids living in Mexico.  Not really, but shit comes close.

And we were brutal.  Once a reputation was made, it was nearly impossible to unmake it even with herculean efforts at rational and wholesome behavior.  We enforced roles based on hearsay, not observable action.  It was just so much more fun to think that someone was a slut/bitch/jackass/pervert even when they weren’t.  Gossip is sticky.  Once a label is slapped on your nasty self, it still leaves a residue even if you do manage to peel it off.

This is bad.  It’s very naughty to gossip about people.  It is dangerous and potentially unjust.  I did it ALL THE TIME.  Everyone was doing it.  It was great!  How else are you supposed to fill the silence of the woods?

No, no, it’s bad.  But gossip played a critical role in the formation of society.  People talked about each other as a method of enforcement, a way to threaten perpetrators into behaving according to accepted mores.  Either through shame or the menace of exile, we imposed a code of conduct that ensured the security of the social order.  If someone saw you take an extra serving of woolly mammoth, you better believe that ho was going to tell the world the next day.  And off you go, kicked out of the club, all alone with your flint spear to defend yourself against saber-toothed tigers.  Good as dead.

I think it’s also a function of the size of the social circle you find yourself in.  Gossip is downright tedious in New York.  Spheres of influence are a good deal more dispersed here so we don’t have enough common experiences to reinforce prejudices and opinions.  We actually do end up talking about other things, which is refreshing.  But you definitely give up the benefits, too—you can’t effectively compel people to behave for the common good and you don’t know if a sex offender is your pharmacist.

I don’t have a tidy takeaway for this.  I’ll give it a try, though.  Gossip: bad, unless it’s good.  Choose your sources carefully.  Use in moderation.