makeshift dialect

my cake wreck

2010-01-17T21:55:00.002-05:00

a portrait of martin luther king jr.

if i didn't have to work on martin luther king day, i'd have more time to fix my wreck.

::shucks::

Panwich Full Moon

2009-09-02T22:48:00.002-04:00

Two friends meet for dinner. Wait for the subway, take a ride to Grand St. Follow a diagram on one friend’s phone. It’s a maze—interlocking thoroughfares bearing names one of you (ahem, she who holds the iPhone) cannot pronounce. Order dinner to go. An ordinary evening.

Yet when Goody Bathtub and I join forces we inevitably end up at the intersection of “WTF?” and “Beyond Strange.”

Instead, we make an unordinary evening, a night filled with so many aberrations you’re certain it isn’t real, that a rare quality surrounds only tonight. You’re wrong. It will happen again.

We took our dumplings and sesame pancake-sandwich (“panwich,” henceforth) to the long, narrow Sara D. Roosevelt park area. We identified an empty bench as suitable and dined on it al fresco.

To our right, a man with a baseball cap stiffly leaned over his bench, his left leg resting across the bench's dark green slats and his right planted firmly on the ground. “Asleep?” I asked GB. She shrugged. “Dead,” I nodded. Later, a scruffy, duffle-bag carrying man wearing a Gatorade tshirt stood beside Dead Guy and somehow injected life into him. Dead Guy sprung up from his supine position and engaged Gatorade in conversation (about the contents of Gatorade's bag, no doubt). Aha, his name was actually “Rip van Winkle;” we corrected ourselves.

Not to be outdone, a Chuck Norris-clone wearing a black cowboy hat and tattered Red Sox tshirt occupied a nearby bench. An open rolling suitcase lay splayed before him on the pavement. He burrowed through, a squirrel searching for nuts, resituating every shirt and pair of jeans.

“Is that his suitcase?” I asked aloud. Rip van Winkle remained asleep.

“I’m not so sure,” said GB, already overwhelmed by the ambiguously homeless lot around us, and, of course, her scrumptious dumplings.

“I don’t think so. Maybe they belong to whoever he killed.”

He kept searching, touching, handling the plain clothes as though they weren't for his body. A few times he stood and paced in a circle, holding a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Plotting his next move: Do I take the clothes? Do I wear them? Should I leave them here for someone to find? But what about the fingerprints?

I turned toward him between panwich bites and then, suddenly, a large water bottle hurtled in my direction. I saw the flick of his wrist the moment he released it, at me, to kill me. When his water bottle missed its mark (me), he called out, “I didn’t mean to almost hit ya!” I turned back to GB and finished my panwich in silence--for fear that I'd be permanently silenced. (JK!)

But then the king of the evening came along. Mr. Kung Fu, a forty-ish Hispanic man, wore a biker’s outfit—bright yellow tight-fitting top with equally snug biker’s shorts—and slung a messenger’s bag over his shoulder, parked his bike. And if Mr. Kung Fu sounds impressive, his bike trumps his personal presentation: a mountain bike bound in lime green tape and—as a subtle accent—a flickering red brake light fixed just below the bike seat. Mr. Kung Fu was a serious biker.

“What time is it?” he asked, though his cell phone dangled obviously on his chest.

“7:40,” said GB.

“Do you speak French?”

Mumbles in French

We shrugged at each other. “Uh, no,” I said.

“You’re both so beautiful. So beautiful,” he said, turning slightly to conceal his impish smile.

“Thanks.” We both laughed. The implicit question--Who the fuck is this guy?--was the source of the laughter.

“Such beautiful smiles!” He pointed to his cheeks and pressed in, detonating something somewhere, I imagine.

“Ha, ha. Yeah thanks. We’re both models,” I said. A cool look in his direction.

Face lit up. “Really? I can so believe it!”

“I’m just kidding. We’re not models.”

“Oh but you could be. Do you mind if I stay here? Do you want me to leave?”

“You should do whatever you feel like doing.” I did all the talking as GB maintained a supportive silence. I’d really like you to leave, but will you really leave if I tell you to?

“Muchos gracias.”

“De nada.”

“So you speak Spanish.”

“I don’t.”

People walk by unfazed. They thought GB and I were best buds with the colorful Mr. Kung Fu. Or they didn’t think.

“See this? Do you like this?” Pointed to his leg and made a muscle.

“Your calf muscle?” I asked.

“No, the color.”

“Of your skin?”

“Yes.”

“You know, it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white. Like Michael Jackson says.”

“Mike Tyson?” Confused look.

“No, Michael Jackson. He died recently.”

“Oh right.” Silence. “Do you think those kids were his?”

GB looked at each other. “No.”

Quick pause, but then he too took to burrowing through his own bag.

“Do you want a cigarette?” He pulled three empty boxes of Marlboro Reds from his messenger bag.

“No thanks.” GB shook her head.

“Hey, do you mind if I sit here?” Motioned to the bench adjacent to our cozy dining area. “I won’t touch you or anything,” he continued.

But he almost touched GB when he reached out and told her she was very beautiful.

“You must know that you’re so very beautiful. Those eyes. Do you see those eyes?” He wanted my opinion.

“Yes, I’ve seen her eyes.”

“They are so wonderful. They’re like this.” He motioned to his own face with an unspecific gesture.

“Yes, just like that.”

“Thailand, China, Singapore, the Phillippines…” He rattled off a list of Asian (or Asian-seeming, perhaps) countries, hoping very hard that GB would nod her head to one of them.

"Do you like her?" he asked me.

Confusion across my face.

"We like each other," said GB.

“Are you married?”

“Yes, I am,” she said, without batting an eye.

“He must be a very lucky guy.”

“He is,” she said.

“I think I could fight him.”

“Maybe you could. I doubt it though,” I said.

He gnarled the fingers of his right hand into a claw. “I know Kung Fu.”

“Is that right?” I asked.

“Yes. I am sure I can beat him. You should tell him that I’m protecting you.”

“I will do that,” GB said and looked at me with her special eyes.

“Well, I think we’re gonna get going now.” I said.

“No, I can leave.”

“No, really. We’re leaving.”

And we left.

As we exited the park, we turned and watched Mr. Kung Fu steer his bike toward some guys who appeared to be his friends. But maybe he thought they, too, wore pretty eyes and sweet facial expressions.

The Fourth Jonas: Greenbeard

2009-06-28T20:22:00.020-04:00

I'll never forget the first time I saw him.

Flushing, Queens. A bone-chilling morning on Main Street. Blondie bought us ear muffs in Sunnyside. Warmed, too, by our anticipation of the Lunar New Year Parade.

We lined barricades. Carved out spaces between children and elderly awaiting festivities.

Performers, multi-national flag-carrying uniforms passed by us. Kids karate-chopped wood blocks up and down the street.

And then he appeared.

His clogged feat danced across frozen macadam in graceful circles. Twirls, if you will. The delicate cloth of his many-colored skirt/dress billowed as he turned, revealing red-orange-yellow socks, tights. Choreography from a rainbow ballet.

Greenbeard would prove to be the true Grand Marshal of this parade. Around his neck, a pineapple procured from a Canal Street vendor, perhaps. In his hand, a small drum. Other decorations (fruit? flowers?) dangled from his ostentatious hat, highlighting the deep rouge of his cheeks and, of course, the newgrass green of his beard. A colorful celebrant of the Lunar New Year, he was.

The next day I visited the parade in Chinatown with Goody Bathtub.

Three USO ladies sang songs off-key before the parade officially began. At some point, they each jumped into a vehicle and waved evenly at the crowd as they creeped forward. Out from the recesses of Mott Street he danced. Sprightly skipping beside Miss USO, matching her wave and smile with each step.

She thought we were cheering for her. We were blinded by his beauty. And shining bald head.

And then, when he approached us, we wanted to reach out and touch him, hold his hand: the fourth Jonas (better than the Bonus). One man had the opportunity to twirl with him, but Greenbeard's awe-inspiring dance moves and fashion sense rendered the passerby speechless. Typical fan.

I thought I would never see Greenbeard again. He's moved on to bigger and better things. More colorful garb and revised facial hair in a parade-happier city.

My friends, Greenbeard is with us.

I happened upon the Pride Parade this afternoon, around 12th Street. Several blocks uptown, Goody Bathtub alerted me to Greenbeard's presence. "He's coming. He's coming!" I exclaimed. People turned around, intrigued.

A few moments later, perched upon a car, Mama Jean, tubby in her own right, opened her denim button down and exposed her rolling side, tired-looking breast.

Where is Greenbeard? I wondered, knitting my brow. Has he two-stepped out of the parade?

But then! There he was. Beard fuzzier than I had remembered. No Chinatown tchotchkes to speak of. But a new accessory twirled beside him: a white dog with newgrass green highlights.

I did what any die hard fan would do: record the moment.

Uh ... that's me screaming "Oh my God! Greenbeard." (Note: I made up the name Greenbeard. His name might be Henry. Yes, Henry Beard.) Have you ever seen the Jonas Brothers walk onstage? Tweens throw themselves at them. Yell, scream, kick. Greenbeard evokes my inner Tween. He is the Jonas Brother that never was--better looking and more talented than all of the blessed Jonai.

Let's celebrate Greenbeard's Pride! And look forward to the next parade!

Do you have questions about Greenbeard? I do.

- Is his beard really green all the time?

- Parades seem to be his primary vocation. What does he do between parades as a day job? Do you think he might be a freelance writer? Or telemarketer? Maybe he's a dance instructor. Or FIT student.

- Does he own any other clothes? Clothes that aren't dresses/skirts and/or colorful?
... Stupid question. Who twirls in skorts? Duh.
UPDATE: An intrepid googler found this photo of Greenbeard at the Mermaid Parade. And this video of Greenbeard in a summery two piece. Apparently he does own other clothes.

What are your questions about Greenbeard?

Why I Love Queens

2009-05-02T21:39:00.026-04:00

It's been a long time. Sorry. You probably forgot about me, but I don't mind.

I wanted to tell you why I love Queens. There's a few reasons. Luckily, the "reasons" are "photos."

People Are More Inventive

From Why I Love Queens

Wherever there's fruit outside, there's bound to be a surprise. Because of cryptic signs with fun punctuation (above) or newly created species of tomatoes (below), shopping for produce never bores me.

From Why I Love Queens

This rule of inspired sign-making applies to flowers, too. Outside of the frame, there's also Dragon Daisies and Siberian Tiger Roses. Next time I'll be sure to photograph them.

From Why I Love Queens

Your Niche is Here

From Why I Love Queens

OK, so maybe you're a human being in the market for a decent, affordable haircut. I'm sure there's plenty of places in this neighborhood where you can find that kind of thing. But check out Vicky's--they preen pigeon coifs, too.

And if you're happy with the hair on your head, you might consider grooming elsewhere. Luckily, this place (below) specializes in exactly what you're looking for. I'm sure.

From Why I Love Queens

Did I mention collectibles? I should. They're important. And highly findable in this borough. The lady in the window obviously scored !Best Prices! on a !Collectible! or !two!--her smile says it all. Gave up a few limbs for a prime place behind toy cars and manga.

From Why I Love Queens

Sidewalks Are the Utilitarian's Utopia

From Why I Love Queens

In the above photo, two girls scoot across the street, narrowly avoiding death by speeding SUV. I've (almost) seen it happen. For them, the sidewalk is a safer place to ride their Razors.

When I was younger, I flew kites at the beach. When I say "younger," I mean "23." Anyway, in Queens, children don't have that luxury. The sidewalk becomes for them what the beach was for me: a liberating kite-flying haven. "Little one, run with it! Go!" I heard adults call after him, as he pushed into women with three-wheeled carts and cane-wielding elderly gentlemen.

From Why I Love Queens

If you don't have a scooter or a kite, or football, baseball, or Skip-It, you might use the sidewalk as storage. See below for tips.

From Why I Love Queens

Everything's The Right Price

From Why I Love Queens

Wow, a burrito's only #0.99!? I mean, $0.99? Amazing. And check out the lunch special at the Korean BBQ. Available 7 Days != !

From Why I Love Queens

Everywhere you'd ever want to shop even accepts EBT cards, as does the deli depicted below. You can buy all the Irish foods you never wanted or knew existed, and if you're lucky, you might even get green eggs and ham. DEAL written all over it.

From Why I Love Queens

I Know How Late I'll Be To Work Because I Can See the Train Across the Borough

From Why I Love Queens

But isn't it beautiful?
And below, an accurate photographic description of what Manhattan looks like every Monday morning.

From Why I Love Queens

Most of All, I Love Queens Because It's All About Prevention

You can't make this up. Face masks actually grow on trees.

From Why I Love Queens

Swine Flu? Fuggetaboutit!

Really, I do love Queens.
Here's why:
Sunnyside Gardens

From Why I Love Queens

Staggering Views AKA I Can See The Sky

From Why I Love Queens

The Best Reason of All

From Why I Love Queens

If you find yourself so-over mundane Manhattan, take that train underwater and visit us. Or at least get your Brazilian done here (way marked down, I hear).

Putting the Pieces Together

2009-01-22T21:57:00.003-05:00

It's what Obama's doing anyway.

You might as well join in on the fun.

Just Because I'm a Woman I Should Know All "The Rules"

2009-01-19T11:45:00.006-05:00

As a 24-year-old, single, middle-class, college educated, white female I have a lot of responsibilities. To recognize my own privilege, to do the best I can to give back to my community and the world at large, and, you know, other things too.

The most important?
Knowing the ins and outs of everythingweddings.

Can you imagine life without this knowledge? Without bridal shower etiquette and appropriate gift-buying guides, our society would be in a hot, chaotic mess. Gee, would anyone even bother getting married? Oh, goodness gracious! Perish the thought!

I don't know anything about weddings and don't care to know much about them. I know, so weird. It's like, I'm not even 24 or single, with a bevy of attractive, accomplished female friends who will, in the next few years, send me invitations with too many cards, envelopes inside.

I don't mind the marriage concept on its own, but just because I know people who are getting married, I'm suddenly responsible for having expertise on a subject I have zero experience with. Can I get a test prep book?

What I Should Know By Now Just Because I'm a Woman

- What to buy and how much to spend (A place setting? What if she doesn't get the 7 of 8 she's requested? What if she ends up eating on paper plates and your one place setting for a few months, and decides she never really liked the pattern on the cereal bowl or creamer? What if she decides against plates altogether?)

- What to wrap, what to not wrap (What if I don't want anyone to see what I've put in the wishing well? What if I've put a spell on the well item that will make all of the bridal party members single-for-life if they view my gift? Sing it with me, "I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale.")

- What kind of bow would look best for the "hat" the bridal party will assemble (The one the cat abused most with his tiny claws, for sure.)

- What to write in the engagement, bridal shower, and wedding cards ("Like I said last time, I really hope this works out for you...")

- How much attitude to give the overconfident (yet single) members of the bridal party when I'm met with empty niceties ("Thanks, it was SO nice. Your directions to this restaurant were ... great.")

What am I missing? There are things that I don't yet know that I'm supposed to know about. How terrifying. Aren't you scared for me?

I think Dolly Parton might consider rewriting "Just Because I'm a Woman" to go something like this:

I can see you're disappointed
by the way you look at my wedding bingo sheet.
And I'm sorry that I'm not
the woman who screams at every gift she meets.
Yes I've made my mistakes
but was it my wishing well gift?
My everyday china is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman

Now I know that I'm no angel
If that's what you thought you'd found
I am just a victim of
a sparkled invitation.

Yes I've made my mistakes
but listen and understand
My opinion of weddings is no worse than yours
Just because I'm an unsavvy woman

*****

Truthfully, it has nothing to do with lacking savviness. It's a form of knowledge I refuse to integrate into my "things I care about" brain-folder.

So I guess most of you are going to invite me to your wedding(s), right?

Extraordinary Coffee Cart Man

2009-01-17T17:42:00.004-05:00

Bright sunlight glistens off the steel exterior of the 43rd street and 5th avenue coffee cart. Back in the day, when I took a different subway to work, I frequented another shiny silver box for coffee and plain doughnuts (by 6th avenue). I never liked the men (2) who worked in there. They were cold, indifferent, uninterested in my eager-beaver smile and soft expressions of gratitude.

The days of burnt coffee and bad service are over.

(Um, they aren't, but whatever.)

I tried the 43rd and 5th cart one day to see what he was like. Would he make me feel inferior? Or - worse - ordinary?

"Hello dear, how are you today?" He greeted me as if we were old friends, as if I'd always bought my cheap, disgusting, bowel-shaking coffee from him. I hadn't. He didn't mind.

The next time, he was just as warm and so was I.

"I am so well, sir. How are you today? Keeping warm in there?" I looked up at him with a big smile, radiating heat, I'm sure.

"Yes, because you are so hot."

Pardon? "Thanks! Have a nice day!"

We continued this for many days and then I gave him a Christmas card with rub-offs. Wait, scratch-offs. I got the idea from the television, a New York Lotto commercial.

"You know, I won $15 on your tickets!" He told the next time I saw him.

"Oh, I am so glad. You really deserve it." Nodding my head, smiling as if he just told me war is over.

There wasn't a line behind me. I lingered.

"You are very, very nice."

"Oh, please. Thank you. You are very good at your job! Best in the city."

Then it began: an onslaught of free pastries.

Day 1:

"I'll just have a small coffee today." In a hurry.

"No, you will have a medium. Half/half and two sugars?"

"If you insist, yes." Coy smile.

"Now, what do you want here?" A quick glance around his inventory.

"What do I want?" Confusion.

"From here?" He gestured at his array of pastries, doughnuts, and bagels.

"Well ... oh, I don't really want anything."

"You have something! Please!" His brown bag was open, ready.

"Okay, I'll have a plain doughnut." Meek, mild, boring.

"That is all?"

"Yes. That is all."

"Okay, that will be $1."

"No, it shouldn't be!" I pushed $2 over the lip of his window. "Have a nice day!"

Day 2:

"Hmm, I'll have a bagel with cream cheese and a medium coffee."

"What else do you like?"

"I don't like anything." Shaking head.

"You must. Pick something." Again, gesturing.

"Okay, okay. Plain doughnut."

"Very good. $1." It should be closer to $4.

"Fine, here is $1."

He nodded at me, a sweet smile taking over his face.

Day 3:

"Ah, I haven't seen you in a while!" It had been a day or two since I stopped to see him.

"Yes, I know. I've been at Starbucks." I laughed, he smiled. A gay time, we had on 43rd.

"What will it be today then? Anything you want."

"Alrighty. A medium coffee is all." One who shoots for the stars, clearly.

"What! Come now, you must have something else."

"A plain doughnut?"

"That is all? It's so small! What else you like?"

"... I don't know?" Again, confusion.

"Anything here! Anything." I shook my head. "Okay, I put this one in for you." He held out a large glazed danish.

"Sure, that's fine."

"You like this one?"

"Yeah, it's great. How much is all this?" He dropped it in the bag and shook his head.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. For you, I don't charge anything."

"How do you make a living doing this?"

"The money does not matter. It warms my heart to give it to you." He clasped his hands and brought them to his chest.

"Okay. Thank you sir."

"You are welcome. You have a wonderful weekend."

Yes, a wonderful weekend at the gym, on the treadmill. What generosity brings: unprecedented weight gain, diabetes, and an inexplicable hankering for doughnuts at 9:30 am.

The Saddest Thing I've Ever Heard

2009-01-05T17:11:00.004-05:00

Dunkin Donuts on 36th and 8th avenue. Saturday, 10 am.

Managed by people from India and/or Southeast Asia.

Not crowded.

I buy a bottle of water, sit down to read. I'm hardly a customer.

A black man sits down at a table one row behind me. My back is two him, but I hear him rummaging through his carpetbag.

One brown Dunkin Donuts worker walks over. "You have to leave now. You've been sitting here, and now you have to leave."

"Man, I'm looking for something in my bag." Hisses as he says it. This man is not overtly homeless, not even ambiguously so, but he hasn't bought anything in the store. I saw him come in and sit down while I was standing in line with my $1.50 Aquafina.

The DD worker walks away. The man behind me says, "Fuck you. Imma fuckin' kill you" loud enough for me to hear, but the worker doesn't. He is unaffected, perhaps a survival strategy. A few seconds later, the manager ambles over, his hands clasped behind his back, relaxed.

"My friend, you cannot sit here now. You have to leave." Yellow, orange, brown shirt tucked into his high-waisted khaki pants, walks by me, is now in my peripheral view.

"Why you sayin' that!" Hands -- fists -- bang onto the dark pink table.

"Because you are not a customer. This seating is for customers."

"Customer! What the fuck do you think I am? I am a fucking customer!"

"Sir, you need to buy something here to be a customer at this Dunkin Donuts."

My eyes bore holes in the rear wall. And then he says it. He goes there.

"I've been a customer at Dunkin Donuts longer than you and your damn family have been in this country."

And then I start crying and do not turn around.

The manager walks back to his counter, eyes turned downward, and tends to his customers who are urgent and worried and unsympathetic as they order their coffees and breakfast sandwiches.

I'll never forget this. For me, that statement says (almost) everything about race politics in America today. We are not post-race. There is considerable work to do.

What New Year's Eve is All About

2008-12-31T18:03:00.006-05:00

Happy New Year!

Great, glad to get that formality out of the way.

It is this time of year, in this city, that makes me wonder why I don't live in a cabin near the middle of nowhere, Montana. They're all out there, the crazies, lurking about, searching for new hosts to infect.

Lucky me, I found myself, vulnerable, in Times Square this afternoon. My favorite place on earth!

Doctor's appointment. Nothing routine, nothing earthshaking or noteworthy. Good doc sent me to Rite Aid to pick up a prescription. Two blocks away. Quick and easy, right?

No. Not quite.

I should note, for all you non-New Yorkers, that it snowed throughout the day. And that ordinarily annoying throngs of tourists looking for a Starbucks became exponentially more annoying in our charming winter wonderland. They walked, five abreast at least, and because of the inclement weather, could not see in front of themselves, and because they could only orient themselves in relation to the M&M Store, found themselves disorganized, confused, discombobulated on 8th avenue and 49th street; their maps flew out of their gloved hands, under their Ugg'd feet.

Ugh is right.

All I wanted was my drug. All I got was a healthy dose of insanity.

Alongside 15 other irritable people, I stood near the back of the store, the pharmacy pick-up window/counter/corner. I leaned against a stack of 12-roll toilet paper packages and observed. My prescription wouldn't be ready immediately.

A large-ish white woman of 65, Roberta, shifted her weight between her stubby legs and cane. Next in line, and yes, Brenda, one of the pharmacists at the cashier asked for her name.

"Roberta Roberts. Yes, I called it in earlier today. Two hours ago. Yes, you should have it. Oh, it's not done? Why isn't it done? I called it in two hours ago or so. I was told it would be done. Wait a second, who did I talk to? I demand to talk to the person I spoke with."

Brenda said nothing. She rolled her eyes.

"What, you're just going to stand there? You're not going to do anything for me? How dare you. How dare you stand there and not find out who spoke to me." Her cane fell to the floor.

"Ma'am, you're going to have to talk to someone at the other window." Brenda. Done with this day 20 minutes ago.

"Where is the other window?"

Brenda gestured to the "Drop-off" window about 15 feet away. Roberta looked to the window, stumbled a bit over her cane (Who put this here! Who moved this!) and turned back to Brenda. No steps toward the window.

"I'm not moving. Whoever talked to me can come over here. I'm not going anywhere."

Meanwhile, Yessica, the other pharmacist with the dreaded task of confronting customers, tended to other patients. Matthew's prescription was ready.

"Sir, I'll take you over here" -- pointing to the register Roberta loomed before -- "just swipe your card here." Yessica meant business.

Matthew did his best to contort his body around Roberta's wide frame so that he could swipe his credit card and be on his way. Roberta didn't seem to care that he was ready to leave. It was as if her feet were cemented to the floor.

Somehow Matthew completed his transaction, though he may have pulled a muscle in the process. After he left, another pharmacist spoke to Roberta about her pills.

She told her a story about her health insurance, how she needed the pills today December 31, before something kicked in or kicked out, or erupted and spilled lava into Times Square. Wait, those are my thoughts.

"Yeah, you should have the blood pressure medication and the clonazepam. Clonazepam, I need my Clonazepam. Lately, I've been needing it more and more."

Clonazepam, I know what that is.

As if hearing my thoughts, Roberta called to the pharmacist, "Clonazepam is also known as Klonopin," because, obviously, they wouldn't have known what medication to give her. Oh, Clonazapam ... fancy birth control?

This lady NEEDS her Klonopin.

Brenda took the next customer, another contortionist, as Yessica picked up Roberta's prescription and directed her to the register next to the one she's been guarding for 20 minutes.

"The prescriptions come out to $13, ma'am." Patient but impatient, Yessica stared at Roberta, her white plastic "Happy New Year" top hat tipped slightly, reflecting flourescent light beams.

"Wait! Wait! Wait!!! I have this." Roberta unplucked a bottle of dishwasher detergent from the crook of her arm. She could have easily stole it, but Roberta and I are not the same person.

Yessica rang it up. "Your total is now $17."

"NO! NO! NO! You have to take it off! You shouldn't have done that! Why did you do that! I have a coupon." From the depths of her left coat pocket, Roberta extracted 900 scraps of paper.

Yessica called for a manager. Brenda stepped out for a drink or hard drugs.

Roberta found the coupon and gave it to her.

"You don't have to undo it now. You don't have to. Don't undo it."

Yessica canceled the manager request. The manager also stepped out for a drink or hard drugs apparently.

"Okay, ma'am, you're getting a little bit fiesty now. I don't know why you're acting that way. Just hold on a minute. You don't have to get so riled up. Your total is now $13.89."

Right, complete the transaction. Give her the damn pills!

"Wait wait wait!! You have to undo it. I can't pay this way. I can't. I can't pay with my card. I have a card, see, and I can't pay for the soap with it." Roberta held out her MasterCard.

"You can pay in cash, ma'am, for the soap."

"Oh." Five minutes passed as Roberta fished out $0.89 from her change purse.

"Thanks. Your total is now $12." As Yessica said this, she started to put the soap and pills in a Rite Aid bag.

"No! No! I need that to be double bagged and give me the pills." Stuffed them into the pocket of myriad curiousities.

Roberta couldn't figure out how to swipe the card, as if she had never been to a store in the past 5-10 years, as if she had never been to this very Rite Aid or harassed these very pharmacists ever before. Yessica swiped the card for her.

Finally, five hours later, Roberta left and we all felt the store's atmosphere deflate. Ahh. Sanity.

I hope you didn't run into Roberta before she took her Klonopin. Drink and take pills responsibly.

Addendum to "I'm Yrs: Wedding edition"

2008-12-27T23:58:00.001-05:00

Not to put a damper on celebrations and unions, but remember one very important thing:

A baby changes everything.

This is our fate, I'm yrs: Wedding edition

2008-12-27T23:23:00.006-05:00

A lifetime passes as the 1 train pauses at Times Square.

I've just run from the 7 train hoping hard to board the next swift boat uptown. I've got an appointment to keep and am already thirty minutes late as I catapult my body between the open doors.

A thirty-something man, Clark, ushers his sixties-seventies parents, Paul and Joanne, onto the train. I'm catching my breath and listening to music loud enough for everyone to hear. (Secretly, I always hope my Shuffle lands on "Lick it" by L'il Kim or 1 of 2000 Britney Spears I carry with me.) They stand close to one another for a moment before asking a non-homeless bag lady (Fifth Avenue boutiques represent!) to make room for Paul whose liver spots and creek-like wrinkles show in subway light. We begin to move at last.

Before Paul sits, Joanne kisses him a few times on the cheek.

She holds his hand, steadies him as he sits down. He's not the most fragile older person I've seen on the subway, so I smile as they do this, at the thought of this display of synchronized care as if nobody's watching. Clark smiles too. Then, the man, seated and content, grips his wife's hand, he kisses it, and then she kisses the top of his head.

I stop paying attention to the stations we pass, focus on them. I see love, LOVE, love. For Paul and Joanne, it is clear that this is life, this is everlasting. I see Joanne standing there, holding Paul's hand, and the look of safety, pride, and comfort filling his face. They're sixty or seventy years old; they're a young couple of twenty-five.

I'm writing about this -- a topic more sentimental and warm than anything else I choose to spend words on -- because I have friends who will soon take vows, who will soon forge new bonds based on what they've shared and what they've yet to shape.

For you, I am sending my deep, heartfelt wishes that, when some unsuspecting, skeptic like me sees you in the subway in five, ten, twenty-five years, they'll see Paul and Joanne.

True Story: Santa Hates Apathetic Postal Workers, too

2008-12-18T11:12:00.008-05:00

Location: Bryant Park Post Office, 43rd Street between 5th and 6th avenues

Time: 9:30 am

Santa wanted to mail a package to one of his most favorites, Sunny.

Sunny lives in Brooklyn, so Santa thinks, Ho, ho ho, First class for Sunny!

Santa sauntered up to the automated postage machine to avoid the line accumulating with many-parceled-people wearing grim faces. With his bulbous fingers, Santa typed in Sunny's zip code and rubbed his velvet-covered jelly-belly, pulled at his thick white beard a bit while waiting for the computer to print his postage.

But then, a message flickered: No more postage tape. Use the postal clerks to mail your package. Can I help you with anything else?

What the fuck, thought Santa, as he pulled his small package from the scale and filed into the line. No, I don't need anything else. This year's holiday stamps are ass.

Three people ahead of him and machine-head clerks winding down, Santa shifted his weight atop his heavy black boots, comfortable. Last year, Mrs. Claus bought Santa a pair of Earth shoes.

Then his turn came!

A balding man wearing glasses sat behind a scale and a computer. His dark blue cardigan hung loose over his blue-grey official shirt, and together, the shirts melted onto his body, a figure from a wax museum. Peter, his name. Various stamps--First Class, Prority--sat around him, waiting to be held. Expressionless he said hello to Santa. As if he didn't know who he was.

"Ho ho ho, Mr. Postal Clerk, I'd like to send this package First Class."

"Does this package contain anything perishable, fragile--"

"No, no it doesn't. Just First Class, and I'll be on my way. My ride's waiting outside. You know the parking situation on this street."

"Very well. Does this package contain anything perishable, fragile--"

"No." ... A robot?

"Would you like to send this Express or Priority or with insurance?"

"First Class. It's only going to Brooklyn."

"Okay. That will be $2.70."

Santa pulled out his debit card and swiped it. No cash back this time.

"You know, I tried to use that APC machine to send this," Santa looked up at Peter, busy with his empty stare, vacuous. "Ahem, the machine said it didn't have any tape to print the postage."

"Oh. Really. Well."

Santa waited for him to say, I'll let someone know, or You should tell someone on the floor that it's out, or It's too bad this Post Office isn't run by a group of monkeys on Klonopin.

"Here's your receipt. Have a nice day. Next." Peter's on a roll.

And that was that.

Santa stepped off the counter, beyond the queue, and onto 43rd street. A trail of sparkles behind him, he snapped his fingers and Rudolph & co. skipped out of the parking garage across the street.

He mounted the sleigh and called out to the miserable work-a-day people, "Merry Christmas to all, and may the Bryant Park Postal Station burn in Hell!" He sored, up, up high above Grand Central and then the Chrysler building. Everyone on the street suddenly smiled and jumped for joy, threw flaming trash cans into the Post Office windows and celebrated in the streets.

The end.

I swear, I saw this happen this morning.

Faith Hell and her Follower(s)

2008-12-15T20:34:00.003-05:00

Whoa.

So, a baby does change everything.

(link--> post about how amazing this song is. Check out her blogger profile. And it says "view complete profile" at the bottom but I'm concerned about what waits on the other side of the link.)

Brown Paper Bags for All: amNY Revised

2008-12-13T23:04:00.005-05:00

Stop me if you've heard this one before:

Two women deliver lunches to homeless people. Two out of six recipients say, "Stop. Wait. I don't eat meat," and request peanut butter & jelly or nothing at all.

Heard it before?

Yeah, I hadn't either. Until today. (A baby changes everything.)

This morning, JA and I woke up willing to serve the world. We strapped on our Pumas, assembled sandwiches (on whole wheat bread, to be sure), and headed toward the 7 train with the explicit purpose of feeding the foodless.

A cold morning, no doubt, but it neither withered our spirit nor softened our spunk as we strode to the subway, with high hopes of finding a particular homeless woman, a small, aging Asian woman, Melinda, who spends her days in the Times Square-Port Authority tunnel.

"She's not there," said JA as we approached the foot of a sprawling incline leading to the Great Bus Terminal.

"Wait, she's up there, I know she is," I said.

"I hope so." JA, who, at this moment is writing about this very event, swung her bag closer to her body as we hiked up the hill.

"She's there! She's there! I can see her on her stool!" I was thrilled and nearly ran toward Melinda, whose head hung low over her kneecaps.

Last weekend, as I walked through this tunnel with bags of holiday cookies to dispense, I stopped by Melinda, knelt beside her, nudged her knee. "Melinda? Would you like some cookies?" She smiled back at me - a wide, brimming smile - and nodded her head. I placed the cookies in her hand and continued walking.

Now, as we approached Melinda, I noticed another homeless person sitting no more than five feet from her. Jeffrey's bag of possessions lay a few feet from him, his legs out and directionless.

"JA, should we give one to him?" A whisper, close.

"Of course." She was certain.

"Hi Jeffrey. I have a sandwich and banana and granola bar here for you. Would you--"

He cut me off. "I don't eat meat." His quick response sent a shiver down my spine and made me step back for a moment.

"Oh. Okay. Well, I have peanut butter. Would you like that?" Searching through a green bag for a brown bag marked "Peanut butter & Jelly."

"Yeah. Are you with a church?"

I looked at JA, who was inching closer to Melinda. "Um, ... no. Thanks. Have a great day, Jeffrey."

He smiled a crooked smile of few teeth. Perhaps he can't eat meat. Then again, Jeffrey appeared as a man of principle, a stalwart on issues of animal cruelty.

JA bent down to Melinda. "Excuse me? We have lunch for you." Fresh-faced, sweet and smiling.

Her pained effort to lift her head said everything. JA and I looked at each other.

"Here you go, we brought this for you, Melinda." I knelt beside her, too. Bony hand extended, gripping mine for more than a few seconds. We looked into each others eyes and I smiled. That smile radiated from her face, and I was happy to see her gaze held high as we left her behind, on her small chair; behind, with her legs bent into acute angles, angles that make her as small and forgetful as possible; behind, with only a sandwich, a banana, a granola bar, and a small juice box to get her through today, the next day and who knows how long.

"Let's go to Washington Square Park," I said, and we did. We found only one homeless person - to my great surprise - asleep under a thick sleeping bag. I placed a brown bag on his stack of belongings and hoped very hard that he wasn't a vegetarian.

JA and I walked past the Picasso sculpture by NYU on our way to Sara D. Roosevelt Park on Houston and Chrystie. How did he do it? How did he build this gigantic sculpture out of concrete? How was it shaped and structured and molded and brought here, to this very place? The thoughts of a well-fed, well-clothed, well-housed person.

At the next part, we ran into a one-legged man in a wheelchair, Raymond.

"Is he doing his business?" JA asked. We walked slower, hoping he would finish.

Raymond gladly accepted our lunch and as we walked away I thought I saw him putting it in the trash. But no! Raymond waved his bag toward a man across the street. "Look at what I got! You want some?"

"Raymond, we can go give him a bag too," I called out and we crossed the street to his friend.

A cigarette heavy with ash hung from his lip. John Jacob stood beside a garbage can, his hands now at his hips.

"Hi John Jacob, would you like a sandwich? We just gave one to Raymond over there and I think he wants to share his with you."

"I do not eat meat." The ash dangled as the cigarette expired. Serious visage.

Here we go again. "Sure, John Jacob, we can help you with that. We've got a peanut butter sandwich right here for you. You have a wonderful day now." Eyes locked on his. Smile. A gaze held, shared for more than a few moments. "Thank you," he said.

We handed our last two sandwiches to a couple of men with parked shopping carts filled with green bottles. "Thank you thank you thank you," they called after us.

And when we were done, we went to Whole Foods. And from there, we baked cookies. We had a normal day. But it wasn't a normal day. All we talked about were the people who we chose and didn't choose to feed; Melinda and her sharply folded knees tucked under her little bench, what little she has, how old she is, and which one of us is bringing her food on Christmas eve; how we value each other as humans, how we assume someone without food would eat anything given to him regardless of its contents, and how wrong we are about the lives of others; how we can't do this every week; how in order to engage in sustainable solutions while retaining the integrity of a respectful, genuine interaction between two people we must dig deep, engage, work hard at working together.

We talked and talked and talked for hours about our morning. A normal day? I hope so.

Good Christian Men Rejoice (for Pro-Life XMAS Tunes)

2008-12-12T23:47:00.005-05:00

What's your favorite holiday tune?

I'll answer that question for you. Not "A Baby Changes Everything."

Have you heard this song? Wait - an aside - where have I been? Why hasn't this blog been updated for over one month?

It's simple, my friends: I've left my material in another borough. Queens is a safer place for this little lady and I'm happy to say it. No longer do people sling their unsavory words, their sexual assaults in my path. I am free of this. For now, at least.

And so I've turned to exploring my observations and yours about Christmas music. Times are exciting.

Honestly, have you heard this "A Baby Changes Everything" song?

Here are the lyrics. I'll give you a few minutes to let them sink in. .... Also, here's a video of Faith Hill singing her song, if you haven't tuned into 106.7 Life FM in the past 4+ months.

OK. This is supposed to be a Christmas song. It's on Faith Hill's Christmas album. Hallelluuuuuuujaaaah, Faith Hill's released a Christmas CD!

It's not a Christmas song, unless Christmas songs are meant to discourage abortions. She begins, "Teenage girl, much too young. Unprepared for what's to come. A baby changes everything." Mary has become your typical American adolescent on block, the BC Bristol Palin (thanks JA for the comparison). Faith Hill reiterates, "A baby changes everything." I think I see where she's going with this.

Then: "The man she loves she's never touched. How will she keep his trust." This struck me. Even Mary dealt with contemporary temptations such as keeping her robe on and learning how to balance motherhood, a career, and a needy spouse. How ever did Mary manage without the worldly recommendations from Cosmopolitan and blogs to guide her?

Faith Hill is right. A baby does change everything. I would have never believed it without her song. I might go out and have one.

And then the ending, the most powerful of powerful, mightiest of mighty! "My whole life is turned around. I was lost and now I'm found. A baby changes everything."

Amazing grace, amazing Faith! I, too, once was lost and now am found, was blind and now I see. Or, I once could listen to Christmas music and now I can't because this song sucks so much I might go deaf. I like the ring of the latter better.

How pro-life is this Christmas song? It's bad enough that it's veiled as a message about Mother Mary (when it's really about Bristol Palin and her ilk). Can you believe she sticks you with the hallelujah-salvation-without-abortion-bit at the end? Incredible.

Thanks, Faith Hell.

A baby changes everything is now my new saying.

"How are you doing today?"
"Well, you know, a baby changes everything."

"It's breezy by the corner store. Why is that?"
"A baby changes everything."

...

"I think the potatoes are on fire. The fire is spreading to the greasy pan, and, oh no, it's engulfed the curtains as well."
"Things happen. Like I said, a baby changes everything."

Put the fire out. Disrupt the phrase with everyday usage.

Truth?

2008-11-02T20:04:00.000-05:00

Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver Invites Me In

2008-10-27T22:30:00.005-04:00

"I'm taking a cab home tonight," I declared as we exited EJ's luncheonette.

"Oooh. Look at you. Taking a cab," said Euro, sweet midwestern thing with a pretty smile.

"Um. Right. This is why I work two jobs." Fake irritation spreading over skin, vocal cords.

Euro laughed. She stood on the sidewalk with Roxie, another peer of ours, and waved me goodbye as I entered a cab on 3rd avenue.

Euro, Roxie, Coetz and I had just finished two plates of cheese fries and a fruity vanilla shake. I also ordered a peppermint tea. When our waitress set it down in front of me, I promised, "I'm going to take this mug." The others half-laughed, quarter-grimaced, quarter-clutched their bags as I eyed the stout treasure, labeled "EJ's Luncheonette" on one of its sides. I told them I collected mugs from diners; they turned away when I placed it in my bag and slapped a hearty tip on the table, slid across the booth and vacated the premises.

They were happy to wave me goodnight.

"Do you take credit cards?" Now too careful to speak slowly, enunciate clearly as I lean into cabs.

"Yes, yes. Get in. Where are you going?"

I gave him my address, buckled my seat belt and sat back.

Joe the Cab Driver, an Indian man in his fifties, showed clear disdain for his fellow drivers.

"Look at them. They are all over the road. All over the road. They aren't getting anywhere, any faster than us. They are crazy." I admired his cadence, rhythm of speaking; his habit of driving 25 miles per hour.

"They are all over the road. Total nuts. I don't know how you do it."

"It is crazy. I drive slow. Safe. They signal: left, right. They are all over the place. They are crazy."

Yes, they are.

"You do want me to turn at 116th correct?" Conscientious Joe the Cab Driver understands the plight of the east-of-Marcus-Garvey-Park resident.

"Yes, that would be perfect, sir." Total score with the "sir." Yes!

"Do you like living up here? Do people harass you?" He turned around to look at me as he asked this. Turned his car onto 106th, not 116th. Wrong way. Screech. Reverse. Turned around in the middle of the street.

I felt very safe.

"I meant to turn on 116th. That okay. That okay. We take Madison, it's quicker." Joe the Cab Driver knows his way around this city.

"That's fine, sir. Don't worry about it." As I watched his meter increase.

Finally, we made it to my street. A usually $12 cab ride cost nearly $20. But what service!

I paid with a credit card. As the receipt unscrolled from within the cab's payment console, he turned around to take a good look at me.

"You, get out of this neighborhood. You are too pretty. You are too kind and nice. Yes, you are too pretty to be living here." Joe the Cab Driver doubles as Joe the Sage.

"You are right, Joe. I am getting out of here." Proud, smiling widely at Joe, who tore my receipt with great fervor and made sure I had all of my belongings. I stepped out of the car.

"Remember, you take a cab wherever you are going. They will harass you. But you are too good. You must get out of this neighborhood. Now go inside. I will watch you as you go to your door." So much concern for a stranger. Joe the Sage Cab Driver triples as Joe the Mother Theresa.

"Thank you, Joe. I'll never forget you. I'll be safe."

"Good. Goodnight, dear."

That night, I dreamt about Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver and imagined a universe where women and cab drivers move freely through an urban landscape, integrated and harmonious.

One day, I will find a Mother Theresa Joe the Sage Cab Driver candle and pray to it in the dim moonlight of a Queens apartment. I will be pretty. I will be kind. I will be safe. All because of Mother Thereasa Joe the Sage Cab Driver.

How to Spell "I Love You"

2008-10-27T21:29:00.006-04:00

I don't ask for much when I go to work.

A little peace and quiet, perhaps. Bands of sun filtering through wired window panes. Tolerable women on the end of telephone lines.

It isn't much, really.

One crisp fall day, when the wind smartly swept my hair every which way, I found myself excited to leave my office for the afternoon. This clear air will take my breath away.

Surely, something captured my breath on the way to the elevator.

Another non-profit shares my office suite. Cheap office space. Sharing. This is Manhattan, after all. No big deal, right? We share a front door. Women rap on this exterior - sharp rattles, a wide wooden board in its frame - they seek someone to speak with about their work, about classes they should take. I answer the door frequently and they push their way in, they ask me about their work, what classes they should take. I send them away without answers. I return to my work, distracted.

One particular day a woman seeking work, who takes classes stood beside the elevator bank. I recognized her from around our shared suite. A forty-something, tall, slightly heavy-set woman. Bernadette.

We exchanged smiles.

"I already pushed the button. I think it's coming," she reassured me.

"Ah. Okay." I swung my bag over my shoulder and stepped back toward the wall beside Bernadette.

She took out her red Palm phone-computer-video device and it rang out some dance-trans music tune. After thirty seconds or thirty endless hours of "LaLaLaLaLa Epilepsy Hoedown," waves of laughter blurted from her, forcing her into a doubled over position.

"Oh my god, Oh my god. This is too funny. Too funny." Continuation of "Epilepsy Hoedown." Hands slapped knees.

I smiled. Where is this elevator?

"Girl, you have got to see this. You have GOT to see this. Do you want to see this?" Bernadette posed many questions and, before I could respond, showed me her phone.

"Look at that, girl!"

She thrust it into my face. I looked. I had to. I couldn't look away.

"It's a penis bouquet!"

All shapes and colors (brown, pink, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet), bulbous heads and crude un-circumcisions. Shafts arranged as flower stems in an elegant vase. An FTD special.

"Ha .... ha."

She expected a larger reaction.

"Isn't that amazing, girl?" The elevator arrived on our floor, the tenth, from down the block, another city.

Thank god. "Yes, that's something." Worried, conscious to accept her share.

We entered the elevator, where three twenty-something females stood blank-faced. Bernadette stood close to the door.

"I'm going to have to thank my friend. She just made my day."

I laughed, smiled, disappeared into the perforated grey wall of the mobile cube. The other women had no idea how my day had been made by this experience.

At floor eight, a balding man of forty-or-so joined us in this ever shrinking space. We plunged downward to the lobby. But Bernadette hadn't yet forgotten about her bouquet.

"Oh, girl, I'm going to have to tell my husband that this is the only kind of bouquet I want from now on." Bern shook her head, proud.

"Good idea," I chimed.

The balding man turned slightly - had he received this message too? - while the catatonic trio bored holes into the elevator door.

It opened, we filed out. Suddenly I heard "Epilepsy Hoedown" all over again, beginnings of a conversation.

"Girl, you are never going to believe what Shelly sent me. Damn..." And then she was gone.

Through the lobby, out the double doors, into the calm cool breeze, I shoved my hands in my pocket, strode down 43rd street, and smiled again, breath completely taken.

(PS - Click here for the special arrangement. Not safe for work. Or children. Or most adults.)

Last Debate Quiz for 2008

2008-10-16T08:19:00.000-04:00

PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE: town hall quiz!

2008-10-08T00:51:00.001-04:00

This is Harlem, Denzel.

2008-10-05T11:32:00.003-04:00

9:30 AM, Sunday morning: Bopping along to Common at New York Sports Club, it hits me. A ton of bricks, too loud crashing down making rubble on the sponge-like gym mat. Last night on 7th Avenue. What a trip.

It's really Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard but that's about 100 syllables too many for most people to mouth. When we call it 7th, we forget it's Harlem.

We're talking about Harlem. Just south of 125th, more American than ever with the newfound presence of American Apparel.

9:30 PM, Saturday night: I'm watching Titanic on TBS. Rose and Jack have just had sex in the buggy. That sweaty palm outline! The trembling! Rapture!

Text message from a friend who wants to meet up for a drink. Do you want to go to Minton's on 118th and 7th?

Yes. Wait - text message language. ys its nr my place so taz kul.

I don't really text like that (in fact, I'm not even sure what that says, do you know?). I'm proving Jamie Lee Curtis' point. I'm whispering ever illiterate.

10:15 PM: I walk out to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd and turn left, walk the three blocks to 118th.

This is going to be an easy walk. How could something crazy and fascinating happen in a mere three blocks? Genuine thoughts, my heels clicking on cement and broken glass.

Between 119th and 118th, I see a gentleman facing the curb, a van blocking his body from streetviews. The legs of a scaffolding monster separate us. I quickly glance toward him and back to the sidewalk ahead of me.

Pssst. Pssst. No. Someone turned on a faucet. Where? I turn around. The gentleman holds himself, his crotch, his thing and whizzes all over the van.

"Get overe here you! You wanna feel it! You wanna touch it! I want you to feel it. Right now. GET BACK HERE."

His urine still streaming as he screams toward me. Nobody on the street turns around. I am invisible and completely obvious at once.

I walk faster, I don't turn around. Clickclickclickclickclick across the street toward Minton's, on the west side of Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd, just inside 118th. As I escape from his calls, I think about what happened to me and JaneAusten (JA) Friday afternoon in Crown Heights/Bed-Stuy.

On Classon Avenue. Just past Fulton Street. JA crossed the street briskly talking of books, of good recipes we enjoy, of family members. All warmly, as JA is quite warm, very sweet, smiles well. As we step onto the sidwalk, a young man on a bike yells at us, "You betta give me a blow job! Yeah!" Emphasis^10 on "blow job," there.

"He was totally talking to us." Who else could he be talking to?

"What about the woman who walked out of the house?"

I looked at JA, eyes wide, soft voice. "I don't think so, honey."

"Oh, this place is not for us." Great assessment, JA!

CLASSOFF, baby.

As usual, I am early for my Saturday evening engagement. Sounds from tat-tattat-tattering cymbals and steal-the-show snare drums skitter out the open front door of Minton's and meet me on the street. I smile at the loud jazz music, as women breeze by me on their way into the joint.

Now, there's no one on the street except for me and a man hunched over the hood of a car. He's closer to Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd. I stare forward, my back pressed to the bar's exterior.

10:20 PM: Denzel wanders up to me and says something, nonsense. "Goodnightyou whatyou what. What." He wears a tan fatigue tshirt with moderately baggy jeans; a du-rag and a baseball cap turned backwards.

I spring from my casual stance and step toward the center of the sidewalk, a getaway pose, hands outstretched as if to say I didn't bring my weapons with me this time.

"No, what you doing?! You afraid of me because I'm a black man. You white women always so afraid of black men."

"Um. I don't know you, and I'm not sure why you're trying to talk to me, that's all. We're the only ones on the street and I don't know you." Very convincing.

"Well you'll excuse me, I'm a little drunk here and I had to walk that crazy old man into his house over there."

"Oh, okay." No really, Denzel.

"My father is co-owner of this place." He stays about four feet away from me throughout our conversation, smiles every now and then.

"Oh yeah? I've never been here before." Nervous, concealed well behind constant smile.

"Yeah where you at?"

"Oh, me? Where am I at? Well I live in this neighborhood, a few blocks away actually."

"That's cool."

"Yeah. There's a lot of whites up here. It's weird."

"What you talkin about? Don't you know you're white?" Very observant, this Denzel.

"Yeah, I know I'm white, but this neighborhood is historically black. Seems fucked up for whites to take it over." I cross my arms over my chest because I'm cold.

"Listen to me, as long as we can still build our things, I think it's okay." What a sage, this Denzel proves to be. "Wait, a second, you afraid of me? What's the matter with you?" Not limited to sage-like wonders, Denzel is also a master of reading body language.

"But what the fuck is up with American Apparel up there? Wait, what?" I uncross my arms, realizing his attention to cues. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Okay. Good. Yeah, that place is whack."

"Serious whack."

We start to discuss the economy and issues of national and global importance. I'm finding Denzel to be a fine conversationalist.

"My cousin lives down in Georgia and says they don't got no gas."

"Fucked up! What? Is that in the newspapers?" Outraged!

"Nah! You know, they don't report on that kind of thing." Denzel is onto the ways of the media.

"That's really annoying. What's even crazier is that people here think it's just not going to affect them, because we live in this bubble that is New York City."

"You're so right about that. Man, what the fuck. It's gonna hit us too, and then, well, then we'll just see what happens."

10:30 PM: My friend walks up to Minton's at last and looks at me askew.

"Oh hi! I've just been chatting with this gentleman here for a little bit now."

Denzel continues chatting about the economic downturn and misfortune of his family members in southern states.

My friend seems skeptical of Denzel. I'm not.

"I think it's terrible that we don't know about what's happening in certain communities in this country. So insulated."

"It is. You're right about New York too." Denzel smiles crookedly, shuts his eyes for a brief moment.

My friend looks at Denzel, then me, then says, "Um, let's go inside."

"Bye Denzel." He takes my hand for a moment and looks me in the face, nods goodbye.

Well, I didn't say Denzel, but he might have liked it if I had.

The Results You've Been Waiting For

2008-10-03T23:31:00.001-04:00

HERE

QUIZ ABOUT VP DEBATE!

2008-10-02T22:12:00.001-04:00

Take this Quiz!

2008-10-02T07:54:00.000-04:00

Intense Sandwiches and Taiwanese Friends

2008-09-29T22:34:00.006-04:00

It all started when the M104 bus blew me off.

No, no, it began with a phone call. A well-placed call in the midst of apartment pandemonium. I dialed up V&T and took a stern tone to the receiver and said, "I'd like to order a chicken parmigiana sandwich. I'd like for it to be ready by 7:45 pm."

"Is that all you want?" Coy, leading me on. She would.

"Yes. That's all I want."

Judging from this short conversation, it's clear that the woman at V&T, Rosa, knew exactly what I needed.

"This is an intense sandwich. Wow!" He exclaimed as he unwrapped the tightly enclosed hoagie roll. Aluminum foil edged into every crevice. We sat across from a chapel, a supposed coffeehouse in its basement. We rested upon a stone bench with words of honor carved into it.

"I told them to make an intense sandwich for you. Well, I intoned that anyway." I crossed my legs toward him and showed him my leaf cookies. He was not interested.

"Delores," he began, "did you really tell them you wanted an intense sandwich?"

"Yes, I knew it was on the menu." I know these things. He called me Delores because he likes the way it sounds. Delores and Betty Lall get along well.

As we laughed, two young women skipped along and stood beside the halfsphere (or hemisphere, to worldly folk) in front of us. Dottie and Ben Stein, they were called. Tall, lanky, Dottie wore a knit beret, while Ben Stein sported an American Apparel hoodie, purchased from the local boutique that caters to Columbia.

They were clearly Barnard students.

Giggles. "Wait, talk now. No, talk now! Just say something!" Ben Stein sat a few feet from Moonif, my gentleman friend, and called to Dottie who was now dancing in the center of the halfsphere.

Moonif and I exchanged looks, then smiles, then what the fucks.

"Say something." Dottie mumbled words underneath her Goodwill-found scarf. She shook her head and burst into laughter, a jolt of vim, as though someone tasered her from beyond the halfsphere.

I half considered tasering her.

Dottie paused, mania shaking underneath streetlamps. Her hands were out, mid-sentence "jazz hands" at her waist. "Can you hear it echo?"

"No! No!"

Ben Stein sprinted from her seat and skipped down East Walk to some crazy women's studies class at Schermerhorn. Dottie followed close behind, tripping over her too-long scarf, her vision obscured by the knit cap pulling its way down her forehead.

Moonif and I wondered if they were on E, or if we absorbed Dottie's sound thus preventing her echo. There's something about this halfsphere, I thought.

After the fun we had with the sandwich and geeks, Moonif escorted me to his dorm. Or Taiwan, as I like to think of it. Look left, look right, they surrounded me in the elevator and followed me down the hallway.

So, why do you call it Taiwan instead of Broadway, floor 11?

Quite simply: the only people who live on his floor are Taiwanese.

Is this possible?

Yes, it certainly is. Rosa, Dottie and Ben Stein would agree.

Such diversity at Columbia University! Instead of integrating students, it is better to lift populations from other countries and place them into particular dorm floors--that's diversity. A wellness floor for Asian people, though I'm not sure they asked to be there. To assuage the "multicultural" pain, I left my Hungarian Pastry Shoppe leaf cookies there, among the Taiwanese.

On the way home, I tried for the M60 on 120th and Amsterdam. I waited, waited, waited for the great white whale to bend onto 120th.

There it is! My white whale!

I forced my Metrocard into the air, up, up, into the sky and waved it around as the light turned green, freeing the bus to sweep me off my feet and take me home.

Me, I'm here, waiting for you!

I even jumped into the street. I even jumped.

The M60 passed me without stopping.

Another bus blew me off tonight. Thanks, MTA. True lifesaver.

Next time, I'll dance in a halfsphere and call out, "Is this echoing," as the bus comes my way. Perhaps then it will stop for me. Or roll me over and taser me.

GYN 101 with Professor Jimmy @ Reed College

2008-08-25T21:04:00.006-04:00

Bambi, Scarlett, Stanley and I sat around a table, diplomatically discussing people, the day's events, our life-challenges and philosophies. We tipped back beers and Tin House Martinis (which should be called "TinTinis"); we reveled in the afternoon sun and first of several conveniently scheduled happy hours. Not one of us--four intellectual poets at the Tin House Writers' Workshop--spoke a word about feminine hygiene and maintenance. It was Jimmy, intrepid vagabond, who introduced such issues to our discourse.

"Can I clear off this table?" He asked, gesturing toward the recklessly abandoned round table beside ours.

Where did he come from? was the look on each of our faces.

"Sure, go ahead." I called out. I wondered if he intended to collect the bottles to create interesting art projects. Perhaps he wanted to deposit them and use the money for his new cape.

Did I mention he wore a cape? It was actually a lightweight blanket with carefully sewn arm holes, fashioned as a summer shawl of sorts. It was a tailor's feat well-executed. I was impressed.

Arms full of bottles, he wandered toward the garbage area. "His name is Jimmy," I declared as he hobbled off. Bambi, Stanley, and Scarlett unquestioningly nodded.

"Hey, you know, they don't take their time with Pap smears." Suddenly, Jimmy sidled up to our table with gynecological tidbits to share.

The other three women looked at each other. Always sangfroid when faced with such situations, Stanley calmly replied, eyebrow slightly raised, "Well, that's ... true."

"It is true. It's absolutely true. They don't take their time. They don't look carefully at them." Jimmy had his facts.

"And they should take their time. That HPV is killing women." I thought we should broaden the conversation rather than harp on the same point.

"Yeah, that Gardasil vaccine. I've heard mixed things about it," said Bambi. Jimmy walked away again, distracted by a writer at a neighboring table who wore a poncho. Jimmy would not be outdone.

"Well, I got the first two shots, and I can't wait to get the third one. It's a big deal." Now I was serious about this Pap smear issue.

Scarlett nodded her head, threw it back, and laughed at our somber tone in light of the ambiguously homeless stranger with the cape. Bambi and I locked into a discussion about side effects/deaths linked to the Gardasil.

"I'm scared, I don't know. I've heard that people die from it." Bambi brought interesting ideas to the table.

"I knew someone. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough." Suddenly, Jimmy had a lot to say about death and dying, and the vaginal experience. Again, where did he come from? Scarlett glanced between the other two women and I, began laughing.

There was silence. "She had that cervical cancer. By the time they figured it out, she had to decide whether she wanted to live or if she wanted her baby to live. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough."

Okay.

Scarlett looked at me and I almost broke down, laughing. Luckily I didn't. Not before Jimmy wandered off again.

Once he left, we wondered what just happened. Two minutes later, I looked toward the bar building.

"Hey, what are those security guards doing talking to Jimmy?" I was concerned for his welfare. Would they take his cape?

Stanley noticed something we hadn't seen when he hovered over our table. "Does he have a crossbow? And is he carrying a yoga mat?"

Yes. Yes he was and yes he did. Jimmy sported a lovely stole with a yoga mat slung over his right shoulder and a crossbow facing front. A man must accessorize.

Another security guard joined their small meeting. Jimmy looked as though he had everything under control.

Fellow poet, Young'N (she's a rapper from MO), observed, "I heard him [she meant Jimmy] say to the security guard that he was wondering where he could get a resume."

That settled it. Job-hunting Jimmy graced us with his presence (and infinite gynecological wisdom) in pursuit of a job. Perhaps he hopes to become a community organizer. Or peer educator.

I've always had this philosophy: If you're trying to get someone to believe in what you're talking about, a crossbow never hurt.

No Rest for the Devil

2008-08-18T22:00:00.006-04:00

Today's my birthday. Minor detail in the scheme of things, but relevant to this story nonetheless.

One of my great friends, Grandma Sitay, offered to take me for a slice of pizza at the ever-popular Artichoke on 14th St. Lucky us, August 18th fell on a Monday this year so we grabbed the opportunity to stake out the pizzeria known for avenue-wide lines.

She works in the Rockefeller Center area, one of my least favorite parts of Manhattan due to its disturbing tourist-to-native ratio. We met on 50th Street and 6th Avenue, site of a famous Rosemary's Baby scene, where we discussed our transportation options.

"How should we get there?" Grandma Sitay asked, glancing around our environs, the numerous Europeans posing for pictures in front of Radio City Music Hall.

"I know! I have a brilliant idea. Let's take the NRW to get us farther east on 14th." I always have brilliant ideas about subway travel. You'll see why.

"Sure, that's fine." Grandma Sitay trusted my instincts. Something she'll never ever do again.

We wandered over to 49th and 7th to pick up the NRW. As we stood safely between the two white parallel lines, waiting to cross 7th Avenue, a woman stumbled past Grandma Sitay, slightly knocking into her. She called out, "Oops, I'm sorry, sweetie." So appreciative of this kind gesture, G. Sitay double-taked, asking, "Did she just call me 'sweetie'?" We both reveled in the moment of rare human connection and crossed the street, Times Square's flashing lights twinkling in our peripheral view.

This will be an unbeatable night, I thought. Everyone is excited for my birthday.

What a foolish notion.

The N train came to a halting stop at 49th Street and we boarded the last car, which was full, uncomfortable, a hot mess. We stood near the door, grasping the overhead bar to keep our balance. There was chit chat and silence, and I lost track of stops.

One brave soul decided it was time to split and pushed her way up out of her cozy bench seat, freeing herself from the chaotic sub-atmosphere. G. Sitay comfortably slipped into the woman's spot. Once G. Sitay was firmly placed on the bench, I sat beside her.

A tall, thin white woman - who we''ll call Rosemary's Baby - sidled up toward me as I took my place next to G. Sitay. Did she want my seat? I couldn't tell.

Two seconds later Rosemary's Baby aggressively shoved her size 0 body into the narrow space between G. Sitay, a pole, and an unsuspecting woman named Lonnie (my name for her). Lonnie squirmed in her seat as Rosemary's Baby wiggled in, thrashing her hips back and forth to create a space for her thin, lanky frame.

I couldn't help but laugh. There wasn't any room for Rosemary's Baby between Lonnie and G. Sitay. What is this lady doing? Was anyone else watching this shit?

Rosemary's Baby wildly opened and closed her free copy of the New York Post (the Devil's paper), a scared, blind sea gull flapping its way out of a nasty tar spill. (But much funnier.) I pressed up against the woman to my right, Gretel, as Rosemary's Baby pushed G. Sitay out of her space.

A few breathless seconds passed and Rosemary's Baby sprung from her contortion and leapt to her feet. Deep crimson hues shot up from her toes to her face. She was as red as a raspberry, which is more pink or magenta (wouldn't you say?).

"SEE, I GOT UP DIDN'T I?" Rosemary's Baby yelled into G. Sitay's face, a dybbuk's spirit possessing her voice and violent motions. As if G. Sitay did or said anything at all.

We were all silent. Lonnie, Gretel, G. Sitay and I.

Thank goodness I focused on the unusual facial hair of another subway rider (a woman named Augustina). Otherwise I may have burst into unbridled laughter. I twisted my face to make a somber smirk, unable to draw a thin line of New-York-apathy across my lips. I think Rosemary's Baby noticed. But I DON'T CARE because Rosemary's Baby got problems and Rosemary's Baby should try lithium. I hear it works wonders.

A distant voice announced: "14th Street, Union Square, Transfer to the 4, 5, 6 ..."

"THIS IS OUR STOP. LET'S GO. NOW!!!!" I pushed past tourists, hoping G. Sitay would grab onto my hand, shoulder, hair, skirt, shirt, anything to safely follow me out of the Devil's lair. We made it. We're alive. Rosemary's Baby stayed beneath. Where she belongs.

So here's the bottom line: MTA - PLEASE QUIT PUTTING BLANK, UNFORMED BENCHES IN YOUR SUBWAY CARS. We need lines, we need divisions, parameters! Give me seats, or give me death! Because death is exactly what it may come to next time we go downtown.

The end. (Applause)

PS The pizza was a-m-a-z-i-n-g. Try the artichoke slice. Tell Artie I sent ya.

Starbucks 2.1 - Any suggestions for where I can write?

2008-08-06T00:49:00.004-04:00

I am very disturbed.

To the point where I am having trouble falling asleep. Now, I don't want to keep you awake but I imagine you'll read this over AM coffee and boring work tasks. A little ruffling of feathers never hurt that regime.

Tonight I went to Starbucks to write. This time I opted for the 96th/Broadway fixture, with high hopes of avoiding the string of weirdos at the next express stop.

Well, apparently I need to choose a Sbuck (as I'll refer to it) at a local stop.

7:00 PM

As I happily type away on my computer, listening to the new Conor Oberst cd, which you should buy when you're done reading this entry, I watch customers come and go, talking of Michelangelo among other topics - usually not in English. I turn up the volume, drown out their noise, and carry on, thinking of smart metaphors and turns of phrase to aptly capture my subject.

Half-way through the CD, I hear a man's voice directed at me.

"What kind of computer is that? What is it? A fluff book?" He says, startling me.

"Um..." I am taken by his appearance. He is not ambiguously homeless, unlike Kenny. There is a direct, explicit quality about his homelessness that shines through his wooden teeth and stained clothing.

His stare demands a response.

"Um, it's a MacBook Pro." Why am I talking to him?

"Oh, what's the processor? A dual processor?" Interested in computers, I see.

"Uh, um." I am genuinely fearful of him, but remove only one earbud to indicate I intend to end this conversation sometime before the song I'm listening to ends.

"You don't know."

"No, um, it's dual processor. I don't know." Do I not know? Why I am talking to him is what I don't know.

"Okay." He waves his hand at me, saying, You're dumb and bought a computer you know nothing about.

I return to my music, shaken up, but he walks behind my chair to plug in his power cord.

7:30 PM

"I got to charge it up." He's talking about his laptop that he's pulled out of a Duane Reade shopping bag. I notice a few speakers in the bag as well. Capacious.

"Right." As he's moving behind me, he looks over my shoulder to read what I'm writing and makes a face at me, close to mine, then bends to insert his cord into the wall. He knocks my adapter out in the process.

"Oh! I'm SO sorry! That was so rude of me." Exclamatory is he. There's no need for embellishing on my part (!).

"It's fine. You didn't mean to do it." Stern at first, then soft, sympathetic.

"It's just so rude to do that. I really didn't mean to." He didn't mean to. He means to keep talking to me.

"Don't worry about it." Like we're old friends.

"What's your name?" Here we go again.

"Nicole." Genevieve should have been tonight's alias.

"Nice. Do you come here often? Yeah, you come here often. I can tell. You got a boyfriend?"

He knows so much about me. Already. "I come here every now and then" - intermittent reinforcement for his stalking - "and I don't have a boyfriend. That's probably why I'm here right now."

I laugh to myself. He doesn't think it's funny. He stares into me, through me with his big blue eyes. As we're "talking," a woman friend of his, with an equally horrifying dental situation, brings him a venti tea. He chides her for placing it on the table with his valuable hardware.

"I've been working in computers since 1983." So he knows a lot about them.

"Oh yeah?" I shut down my computer.

"Yeah, an insurance company I worked for. I could have sued them but I didn't. I'm not someone to do that. Know what I mean?"

"I do. It's a morality thing." Remove the adapter from the wall.

"Exactly. It probably wouldn't have made a difference to them, but for me, it felt like something I couldn't bring myself to do."

"I totally understand what you're saying." Adapter in the bag, velcro crunch, pocket sealed.

"You should listen to this song about changing the world. I wish politicians would follow it." He's one to follow the important issues.

"Oh, I will sometime. Thanks." Laptop in the bag.

"You like the band Tool? Nine Inch Nails?"

"I've heard of them." Zipper - zoot! - bag shut.

"There's this song I have on my computer. Let me play it for you." He opens the file and attaches his speakers to the computer. "They won't mind." He points to the baristas behind the counter who are chatting about their love lives.

"What's your name again?"

Genevieve. "Nicole. What's yours?"

"My name's only for friends, but I don't have any of them." Then who is the lady you're sitting with, buddy? "It's Tom." He smiles.

"Nice to meet you." A quick smile. I don't extend my hand or fantasize about blending it in someone's frappaccino.

My tote full of personal items is on the table, ready for lift off. The laptop bag is already slung across my chest.

"Sure, play it."

On his screen, Trent Reznor, ball of sunshine that he is, appears, suspended in a cloudy sky. Music wells around him. His dark precise facial hair contrasts his pale face. The camera cuts to a large bird with giant ugly claws and big blinking eyes. Then some woman, part of Trent's sexist fantasy, writhes on a couch, clothed or not. I am too lost in my escape plan to notice the minute details of this presentation. Trent sings something like, "I want to be with you. I want you."

During the two minutes of this spectacle, I've become increasingly anxiety-ridden, looking around at the people in the Sbuck, who all seem to think this is the usual for Tuesday nights.

"Nicole, this is what I want to say to you. What he's saying right now." He's referring to the NIN lullaby chorus about "wanting you."

Jaw drops, nausea begins. Luckily, a barista, done talking about her boyfriend, intervenes, telling Tom to turn the music off.

"You got this Enya crap going on in here. I don't know how you can stand it all day. What's next? Tony Bennett," he yells at her across the room as she sweeps the floor.

This is my opportunity to leave, so I grab it and shake it like an infant, run the hell out of there. On my trip home, I feel paranoid that Tom is following me. I am up tonight because I can't shake this man's stare.

Good night?

Tin Out House

2008-07-29T18:49:00.007-04:00

The energy feels better in this Starbucks so I think I'll take a moment, record some thoughts, wayward experiences. There aren't any ambiguously homeless individuals clamoring for my attention at my counterside stead.

We'll see how long that lasts.

A few weeks ago, I spent seven days in Portland, OR for a writing workshop. Hands down, these were the best days of my life.

But weren't you irked and driven to insanity by the pretentiousness of your peers?

By the unfounded overconfidence and egoism of the writers on faculty?

What about hippietastic Reed? That didn't bother you either?

No, none of this bothered me. I felt warmed by my surroundings and enthralled by the "real" writers in my presence. I even asked for their autographs.

Best of all were my workshop peers. Their eagerness to push themselves inspired me to do the same. Some pushed themselves in directions I never thought I'd ever see.

For instance, one night after the reading I came upon a generous surprise in a very public campus bathroom.

Come with me to the bathroom, for a moment. I'll show you what I saw.

I escaped quickly from the open amphitheater where the reading happened. There weren't many people on my tail as I approached the bathroom. Just me and the sinks, I imagined.

I pushed open the door. A voice rose.

"Oh. My. God. It smells soooooooo oooooo oooooooooo bad in here." The valley called, they're missing their idiot?

She stood next to the sinks, directly across from a friend, frozen or paralyzed or dead by the horrible stench consuming every air bubble of the room. She didn't let her friend agree, disagree, blink, cough, breathe.

Urgently: "There is, like, a GIANT poo in the handicap stall." Such vivid word choice. A fiction writer, no doubt.

Disoriented by a) the overwhelming smell of human feces, b) the prospect of a live poo outside of its destined receptacle, I stepped toward the handicap stall and peered in. There was no time to process the ramifications of such actions.

It was a foot long with massive girth and stranded at least a foot and a half from the glistening porcelain bowl. Two squares of one-ply tissue paper covered a fraction of its dimensions. A discreet move, clearly.

The two girls left and laughter burst from me. An explosion. I covered my mouth as I relieved myself, wondering if another woman enters this bathroom, would she blame me for the remote turd?

I composed myself and left the bathroom and didn't speak a word of it to anybody. Not even the five people who tried to talk to me on the bus ride home. Though I should have told them.

The next afternoon

Some of us sat around a large round table eating lunch. Scarlett* told us about the bad dreams she had the night before.

"Really?" said Mary. "My roommate said that she had very strange dreams, too. But I think her dreams had something to do with an incident."

My ears perked up. "What kind of incident?"

Mary took a moment to respond and slowly began. "Well, last night, after the reading..."

"Yes..."

"...well, she went to the bathroom..."

"She went to the bathroom?" This incident sounded familiar, deja vu?

"Yes, and she went into one of the stalls." She paused. Scarlett and I looked at her, wide-eyed.

"She saw a ... bowel movement on the floor."

I jumped out of my chair. "She saw a bowel movement on the floor!" I began to laugh hysterically to the point where I almost cried and relieved myself right there at the lunch table.

Scarlett and Mary exchanged glances at each other, politely waiting for my maniacal laughs to calm.

"No, no. I saw this bowel movement, too, but I didn't have any bad dreams because of it."

"Could it be the same bowel movement?" An inquiring mind.

"I sure as hell hope so. Here's my story." I told them what I just told you.

When I finished laughing/crying/squealing, Stanley said, "It seemed like you were laughing about something this morning when I saw you."

"Well, I didn't want to tell anyone about it because I didn't know who did it. What if one of you did it and I made a joke about it?"

They looked at me and burst into laughter, no, guffaws. "But someone shit on the floor," Stanley pointed out.

"Yes, I know, but what if someone couldn't help it. What if someone was sick?"

Mary, with sympathetic nods, cooed, "Oh, Nicole, that's so considerate of you to think that way."

I guess this means I'm special. What do you think?

All I know is the Mad Shitter may strike again. Probably at Starbucks.

*I've changed the names to protect the innocent.

Listening to Crap 4 Fun

2008-07-24T11:21:00.004-04:00

This is a meme (that I won't participate in as a true meme) I found somewhere when I was bored. I hope you find it as invigorating as I do.

Here is the shitty stuff I listen to and totally get down/belt out lyrics to on the subway, I mean in my apartment:

(1) Britney Spears--all of Blackout & Greatest Hits (My Prerogative) - Does this even require commentary? Um, did you know that she didn't even sing all of "I'm Not a Girl, Not yet a Woman"? Dido totally sang some of that ... or Britney Spears's entire oeuvre. (Word choice?)

(2) Dashboard Confessional–As Lovers Go - This song warms me. Like those heat packets you put in yr boots when it's cold outside.

(3) Avril Lavigne–Girlfriend (remix feat. lil mama HELLZ YEAH!) - Lil Mama got it going on. And so do I.

(4) Sonny & Cher–I Got You Babe - I love Cher. She's an eternal flame. Seriously.

(5) Katy Perry–I Kissed a Girl - This is possibly my favorite song of the summer. Are you surprised?

I'm not tagging anyone. Feel free to tag me. I like being 'it.'

Been a long time: Starbucks 2.0

2008-07-21T23:20:00.007-04:00

Hello strangers. I hope you are well. End times are nigh, they tell me. Maybe I mean "end times are night," a cryptic message forgetting its final consonant. Rubbish, you might say.

Read on. I miss you. I'm telling you why.

I've had many "interesting" experiences over the past weeks. I won't share them with you right now, but I will tell you about Kenny.

Tonight I sat in Starbucks for a few hours. Mostly Google stalking. I mean, writing. I went to the one on 71st and Amsterdam or Columbus or Broadway - who can tell at that intersection? - and I think there's only one at this particular meeting of streets so you should know which I'm talking about. It's by McDonalds. That might help some of you out there.

Lucky me, there was exactly one seat open so I snagged it, greedily, shoving my Pike Place Market brew onto the table. I sat down behind it and opened my computer. I realized that my table was directly in the way of the bathroom line. This is fine, I thought, and got down to stalking. Writing. Whatever.

Time: 7:00 pm

As I type, a polite gentleman of about 50 years sidles up to my table.

"I'm waiting for the bathroom," he says. I didn't ask, but at least I know he isn't reading my manifesto. How embarassing that would be.

"Okay." I turn back to perezhilton.

"You going to the bathroom?" asks Kenny, he seems like a Kenny.

"No. I'm not. But thank you for asking." Did I just say something about the bathroom?

"You're really pretty." I notice his stitched Obama hat and Princeton basketball shorts, his logger boots. Ambiguously homeless.

"Um, thank you." It is now his turn to go into the bathroom and he stands still. Maybe it's because the women's room is the only available place to take a leak.

"Yeah. I'm gonna go to the bathroom now."

"Okay." Back to wikipedia. Or that essay.

10 seconds pass

"Yeah, I was just riding a bike with one of my buddies," says Kenny, answering the question that burns deep within my soul.

"Really. That's nice." Can I help you?

He looks down at my feet. "Those are really sweet shoes. Do you live here?"

"Thanks. Um, yeah."

"Manhattan?"

"Yeah. That's where I got the shoes."

"You are really pretty. Damn. You are just gorgeous."

What the fuck is this guy talking about. "Thanks, he he." Did I just say/type 'he he'?

"What's your name?" Do I have a choice? I can't run away from Kenny. A huge column and queue of sweaty coffee drinkers stands between my small round table and the door.

"Nicole." Darn, I should have said Maude.

"That's a nice name. I'm Ron." Hand extended, okay I guess I'll shake it instead of ripping it off and throwing it into the frappaccino blender. He would have said Maude was a nice name even though it isn't (no offense, Maude).

"Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. It's really my pleasure. You're gorgeous. Stay that way, Nicole."

"Okay. I'll try." What?

Flabbergasted by my ridiculous response, he says, "You don't gotta try."

Thanks Kenny. Big smile. He walks off, and turns around, and says goodbye, and turns to the door. AndishegoingtotellmeI'mprettyagain ...

.... and he's gone!

What the fuck? My question is really directed at Starbucks: WTF Starbucks, why you only got one bathroom open?

I'll be back soon.

Our Favorite

2008-05-18T11:56:00.005-04:00

Not only is Barack Obama the BEST CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT WE HAVE EVER SEEN OH MY GOD, he is also the finest writer the world has ever yielded.

We're all so proud of him. He doesn't even have an MFA. How impressive.

Watch her fall! It's fun, we swear!

2008-03-03T22:00:00.003-05:00

Look at this. NOW.

OK. If you're not disgusted, I suggest you turn your browser to another site, one without feminist, no, humanist convictions. You have plenty of options, go.

What does a falling Hillary signify? I don't know, really, I can't get past her poor shoe choice and pink bikini. Or that awesome body she has. Who cares if she's funny or smart or capable (or, or, or, or, or) with a rack like that?

Right? Right.

There's a moral to every American story. Stripped of her pantsuit, this candidate is still a glossy centerfold fashion victim without any stable ground to stand on. (Do the clothes make the man? Or kill him? Only if she's a woman underneath.)

On the night before super-irritating Tuesday, I watch her bounce between the balls, wait for her body to end up twisted, mangled in a crevice somewhere irretrievable. Oh hold on, she's been there. For months now. This stupid show is nothing new.

NY Times & Women: a multi-part love story.

2008-03-02T12:10:00.007-05:00

How many times is the New York Times going to publish this article? Or a permutation of it? Less than one standard deviation from another article about gender differences using one myopic expert to prove the rule, the assumption, the sexist expectation?

What's the consensus? Do we feel bad for boys this time? Are they not getting enough attention? Oh, I see, this time we're mentioning that age-old concern that females aren't encouraged in math and science - seeking equality in the text. How genuine.

I think students should be separate based on braces or no braces. Or Hannah Montana fans or Zac Efron fans. Sounds more productive to me. Everyone would get along in harmony, singing and staging choreography as they construct geometric proofs.

Oh, but we wouldn't split them up by race. No, no. That'd be absurd. That'd be like splitting them up based on Free & Reduced eligibility (FRLP, remember?). We like to touch and prod and step all over gender in America; it's the clearest decision to make and least messy. It's not like we've witnessed how that's played out lately here or here or here or here (the only one that makes ANY sense), or give me a few minutes and I'll find more.

So, I wonder, NYTimes, who you actually endorse. Women? Never. Not on the page not in your spacious cubicles and floors down by Port Authority.

And Obama, king of non-stick politics, when can we expect that huge endorsement from Teflon (and others, the NRA, nuclear power, etc.)?

...all I hear are words to a changing tune...

My Audition - A Fantasy

2008-01-16T22:23:00.000-05:00

When I audition for American Idol, I know exactly what I'll sing.

Okay, so maybe you're wondering why I'd audition to be the next American Idol. Well, I think it's pretty obvious so we won't get into that. You skeptics, go read someone else's blog!

(Just kidding. Sorta.)

Getting back to the important matter at hand: I will sing the Empire Today jingle. You've heard it, an advertisement for really awesome flooring! 800 588 2300 EMPIRE (smile) It'd be original, obscure, yet strangely powerful. I will beat box between 588 and 2300 and really belt out EMPIRE at the end to show my range of performance styles. This will woo Simon, as Randy notes the clever throw back yet contemporary thing I've got goin' on. Paula will just nod and sway. Sway and nod. I will find my way to Hollywood where I'll meet important executives who will sign me to record jingles for finer products such as Mr. Clean cleaning products and a menopausal woman's supplement.

Next year, when American Idol comes to my "neck of the woods," I'll be ready. The question is: Will you?

and this isn't about hillary

2008-01-07T22:07:00.000-05:00

they will
go to great lengths to elect

anyonebutawoman.

i watch
half the american race selfsabotage

election
electionelection
elect
ion
elect

i
don't
elect.

Meme game.

2007-12-16T22:43:00.000-05:00

That Talker's pretty swift. She's thanked me for something on her web via this "meme" (which, I'll have you know, is not really a word). Reflecting on the past year, speculating: what am I thankful for? Oh so many things!

Here, you think about this too. It's good to consider what we appreciate in our lives, what we give thanks for on days when there isn't a turkey on the table.

(I won't number them because this is not a hierarchy. If I could write these in a circle, I would. I am thankful for all these things relationally.)

Bird - she is one of the best friends I will ever have. I'm certain of it. I always hope to have her in my life.

Amy - another fantastic friend who understands me. Thank you for always listening and remembering.

My ex because I would have never ever EVER gone to Montana if it hadn't been for you. I am a changed person because of Montana, so, even though our relationship did not work out, I will always be grateful and indebted to you for helping me leave New York when it was essential I did just that. Also, thank you for helping me think I could attend graduate school and succeed with writing. And thank you for trying to love me when you did.

AmeriCorps - because I was able to become a part of the lives of so many amazing people. Without AmeriCorps, I may have never realized some of my deepest, most important passions.

Hellgate High School - the WHOLE school. Students, staff, everyone. I am a more accomplished person today than I was before I set foot in that incredible high school.

Missoula, MT - I am freer and more aware of who I am because of Missoula.

"Grandma" - I am thankful for all the times you listen to me, laugh with me, read and critique my work, for introducing me to your amazing husband (who is actually one of my favorite people) and inviting me into your lives. Thank you so much. Irreplaceable. I still think you're my mentor and I still want you to be my editor.

Lisa Waller - you are an amazing person. You've opened up my eyes to so many things. Thank you for facilitating my growth. I miss you every day. Thank you for making time for me when you did. And it's Michelle, not Naomi, not Nicole.

Talker - well, if you've been paying any attention, you can see why I'd thank her. Thank you for thinking of me.

Janet Marek - because you are amazing and I learn so much from you. Because I think you're one of my favorite parts of Hellgate, of Missoula, of Montana, of my life.

Monica Roscoe - because you are an incredible listener and it was so nice to meet a kindred spirit in a foreign place. I know I can always pick up the phone and call you and have a three hour conversation, like, right now.

Louise - because you have helped me realize that I can really do this. I don't know if I've ever felt this supported in something before. I know you won't read this, so I'll thank you in an e-mail. I am very grateful.

That's all folks! (It isn't. I'm grateful for other people, things. This is all for now.)

Accusations/Sexuality

2007-12-10T22:07:00.000-05:00

As you may know, I have a roommate. Her name is Talker. Why is her name Talker? Oh, prying reader, she's Talker because she talks and Talks, airing her mind for any and all listeners. (Unless, of course, we're on the subway and someone pointedly outs me as a pregnant woman. In those instances, she remains silent, inappropriately.) Any subject at all, she's got something to say.

Lately, she has a lot to say about me. And my sexuality. Well, let's be blunt: She's accused me of being a heterosexual.

Gasp!

How could she say such a thing? Let it be known, I am no heterosexual - not that there's anything wrong with that! Talker interprets my pink pregnancy muumuu shirts and predilection for pink hair bands (They're called elastics, Nicole) as telling signs of a bad case of the Heteros. Whatever I've come down with, she's quick to assess the "problem" and I think Talker's found a cure.

We go out together. Don't all roommates? Or most? Some? Okay, I'll settle for a handful. At any rate, we dine, shop, and throw parties. Big deal. Oh, we also decorate our apartment together.

If you live in a cave, you might not know this, but Christmas is fast upon us. Actually, fellow cave dwellers may have ventured out to an internet cafe and relayed the amazing sales at Macy's (and printable coupons!) to you. Christmas has always been the "shit I don't need" and "tree killing" holiday in my book, so Talker and I decided to purchase a tree because they've ripped them, root-by-root, out of the ground anyway, right? Right!

In New York City, tree vendors set up shop around December 1st and do not move from their station until December 25th. Through sub-freezing temperatures, they stand vigil beside a lot of trees, watching the sun rise and fall every day until Christmas.

The closest tree vendor to our apartment is about five blocks south. Last Saturday, I scoped out the selection so that I could give Talker the low down. That afternoon we ventured toward our local tree vendor to pick one out and bring it home with us.

For this "date," I wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt - my gym outfit - and she wore pink pants and cute Converse knock-offs, with a winter coat concealing her lovely green blouse. We were quite the pair. My unwashed hair and spectacled look was intensely attractive, as I'm sure Talker noticed.

We approached the tree vendor and he, self-proclaimed Treeman, said to me, "Oh you're back again! I saw you perusing the lot earlier." He noticed this unkempt delight - I was surprised and thought, Treeman is hot.

Two seconds later

Talker: Which one do you want?

Me: I don't know, this one is cute over here. What do you think?

Talker: I don't know. I don't want to get a dead one. How do we know if it's dead.

Me: Well I guess we could ask Treeman. (Duh.)

Talker: Ok. (To Treeman) So, this is our first tree. I want to make sure we get a good one.

Treeman: (Looks at me then Talker then me again) Um, well I just sold the guy before you an $80 tree and it was dead -

Me: Good thing we asked then!

Treeman: Right. (Rolls eyes, continues to swindle) Well, if you just do this (pulls on a branch) and the needles bounce back, the tree is healthy.

The one we wanted was healthy.

Me: What do you think? Do you want this one? I do!

Talker: Yeah this one is good. (Turns and smiles at me.)

He wraps up the tree.

Me: I'll carry it.

Treeman: OR you could carry it together?

Talker: She'll carry it. She always does all the heavy lifting.

Treeman gives "a look" and quickly recounts the money. Sweatpants-clad butch that I've become, I hoist the tree upon my shoulder and we walk home. We don't hold hands because this butch won't engage in such dainty expressions of love while carrying heavy things for Talking Femme.

Me: That Treeman was hot, wasn't he?

Talker: Totally hot.

I hope you're getting all this. Talker formerly denounced me as a Heteros-plagued deviant and then publicly proclaimed (at least to Treeman) our unestablished romantic tryst. Something's missing!

I can't figure her out. Maybe you can. In the meantime, I'll continue my make-up free regimen, wear barrettes in my hair, and step out in black patent flats 'cuz my clothes can't tell me or anyone else whether I've got the Heteros or the Homos.

Gotta keep on truckin' in between.

Stork on a train

2007-11-03T18:05:00.001-04:00

It happened on All Saints Day. Appropriately.

The next step in my life process finally came to head. I've been worrying for so long, but now it's happening, at last. On November 1, 2007, I learned that I was pregnant.

See, there's St. Fatima piously beaming her light over my unborn child. St. Anthony and St. Guadalupe look on, supporting the apparent out-of-wedlock birth to-be. (Things are changing.)

Don't be surprised. After all, I only advertise one persona on this blog. This is coming from the next expert on female sex terminology (see previous post, if curious). I am not a contradiction, I am a myriad of yes.

Do you know how I learned of my pregnancy? A woman on the subway told me. New York is a truly incredible place. We've got subways riding under skyscrapers, accordian players and acrobats performing street-side, and now, to add to this list, we have walking pregnancy tests.

Was this woman a gynecologist? I doubt it. Did she touch me? Ask for urine? Inquire about my sexual behavior? No, no, and no. Wait, she did touch my roommate. Perhaps this is how she found out about me and my secret womb.

On the fecundly unfurling morning of All Saints Day, my roommate, who we'll call Talker, and I boarded the subway together, delighting in the sparse showing of commuters. She claimed a seat, I stood in front of her. Everything was fine until 103rd street. That's when the seer, Ms. EPT, climbed on our train car.

A representation of Ms. EPT sans sweatsuit.

Across the floor, she scuttled, waving her cane ahead of her sweatsuit clad body. The woman sitting beside Talker allowed Ms. EPT to take her seat, and so, Ms. EPT swung around, her cane flailing, and landed not upon the seat but Talker's right side. Her entire right side and right-center, in fact. No light-weight, Ms. EPT managed an "excuse me" as she slid her bulbous frame into the orange seat. I could see she had little patience for such niceties; the music from her cheap plastic headphones demanded her full attention.

Wah ah uhhhh. Baby! Waaah Ah Uhhhhh. I stood stupefied, staring into Ms. EPT's scrunched-singing face. My face asked Talker, Who sings on the train? She shrugged, quiet. The vessel was silent but for Ms. EPT's utterances.

One ditty sounded familiar. "Is that .... ?" I started, asking Talker for some Ray Charles knowledge, who made a face and shook her head. The broad, flat (read: scary and incoherent) delivery of lyrics let me know I would never understand the song and pain of Ms. EPT. But then I decided I wouldn't care.

As we hurtled past 50th Street, Ms. EPT momentarily emerged from her musical state and gracefully asked, "What month you in."

"Um ... excuse me?" Slightly stunned, my eyes widened.

"You're pregnant?"

I think my face turned 10 shades of red before settling on "Beyond Embarassed, #49." Talker looked at me, and, as expected, said nothing. She may have been stunned too. But then Talker's neighbors gawked at me, waiting for my response. All of a sudden, the whole subway car wanted to know if I was pregnant.

"I'm not pregnant. I think you're mistaken. See, the shirt I'm wearing, it's billowy, see?" I pinched at my shirt and lifted it from my self, letting it fall back down, demonstrating my point. I wondered if it was my fault that she thought I was pregnant. Had I been shopping in the maternity section of Old Navy?

"Well, sure looks like you could use to lose a few. Mmmhmm." Song lyrics? Not even close. A moment later. "Didn't mean to offend."

"It's okay." I turn to Talker. "Is it okay!?" She shook her head, again. Not a word spoken.

I laughed politely because this is OBVIOUSLY the only correct response to some homeless chic betty telling you you're fat.

We arrived at my stop, 42nd street. "You have a good day," Ms. EPT said.

"Yeah ... ?"

When I left the train, Ms. EPT continued the conversation with Talker, who began to talk, at last.

"I hope I didn't offend your friend."

"Oh, don't worry." (This would not have been my response, by the way.)

"Maternity is a beautiful thing."

I'm sure Talker nodded, though her affirmation was omitted from her report to me.

Right. Ms. EPT thought I was SO BEAUTIFUL that she told me I was pregnant. As a compliment.

Should I have felt insulted? Probably not, since Ms. EPT also goes by Ms. CRAZY, I think. Next time we meet I can only hope that she'll comment on my smile or my eyes instead of my midriff.

Moist & Me - A Tale of Repugnance

2007-10-30T10:11:00.000-04:00

I am affected by the words of others. It isn't hearing about the war or the rampant wild fires consuming California that bother me. Surprisingly, the invitations for sex I receive from street people daily aren't so bad either. (See below entry for more information.) I shudder at the most careful, delicate usage of one single word: moist.

Moist. Say it out loud. Allow co-workers in neighboring cubicles to hear the shape your mouth must take to accommodate its round, damp existence. Say it slowly, extend the word to two/two and a half syllables - my mode of execution because of my speech impediment. I mean, because I'm from New Jersey. Let them shudder, too. Are you thoroughly disgusted?

Good. (If not, keep reading. I promise there's entertainment below.)

So let's talk about why moist gets me down. I learned yesterday that many women actually experience repulsion upon hearing that word; I didn't feel so alone. To think, I was about to check out yahoo groups for support. But no, an article on Salon.com's broadsheet titled "Linguists: 'Moist' makes women cringe" addressed my concern.

A very brief synopsis: Carol Lloyd, the writer, contends that women's distaste for "moist" links to their discomfort with their own and all female sexuality. She writes, "One possibility: The word 'moist' straddles the same cultural polarities of shame and openness that still haunt modern female sexuality." She suggests that a Victorian-era modesty regarding sexuality has re-emerged (how post-modern) or has never exited from contemporary discourse on sexuality, and accesses an incident regarding a moist-happy male Shakespeare professor who wielded the word to the critical amusement of a handful of female students:

According to professor [Charles] Doyle [of the University of Georgia], the women offered no explanation for the word's bad juju, but one male student suggested that it might have something to do with female sexual arousal. To which I offer the following comment: No, duh.

Isn't her usage of juju the best part of the quote? (Pretty much.)

Okay, Lloyd's got a point, sorta. Of course, America isn't the most sexually open Western nation, in general, and for some women (not all, not necessarily many), the virgin/whore binary may feel like the only choices. Maybe Lloyd's onto something.

Except I don't personally agree with anything she said in her article. This is my vision of moist:

A DAMP DISGUSTING SPONGE

"MOIST" CHOCOLATE CAKE

MOLD - Still have an appetite for the cake?

When I hear the word moist, an equation suddenly appears within my mind (which should tell you that this is a completely logical response and not linked to a discomfort with arousal):

sexual arousal + warmth + non-cotton panties = yeast infection

Does it sound like I am ashamed of female sexuality? That's for you to decide.

Lloyd also mentions wet and wonders, "Why moist and not wet?" Well that's very simple, Ms. Lloyd.

When I think of wet, a different equation lights up my mind:

sexual arousal + sexual act + no panties = only good things

My roommate and I talked about the differences between moist and wet. In a sexual situation, moist, she thought, described what is more for the benefit of the other person, so to speak. It can be considered as a polite gesture, like holding the door for a stranger (my words, I'm not holding her accountable for this). I told her I thought wet was the real thing, a signifier screaming, "It's actually working!" Using wet is a proud proclamation of the arousal that occurs in tandem with the female sexuality long departed from Victorian secrecy and shame. A genuine embrace of a woman's ability to be sexual!

The moral of the story is that wet is raw, real, and accurate, whereas moist is a disgusting word that can only bring various forms of fungal growths to mind. This truly may have been the problem with Lloyd's example involving the professor and students. Were the female students worried that Ophelia or Cleopatra might have gone for a run (before the river, the asps), not worn the right underwear, and then sat around for a few hours? Were they concerned that Monistat may not have been available for them at CVS? What if there was no CVS?! Witness the anxiety brought about by moist!

It has nothing to do with sexuality, but connotation instead. Reserve moist for discussions of mold and cake - never together, please - and take up wet as the new word of empowered female arousal.

M60 Update: ALL Services Included?

2007-10-11T22:13:00.000-04:00

Hello local friends and faraway dreamers! Welcome to New York City--site of retail, riots, and private hells. It's also the place where the homeless, surly, and otherwise strange find and target me, where they invite me into their worlds.

Don't get me wrong, I regard this incredible knack for connection as a true gift from above. Or below, or everywhere within and without my body: Shantih shantih shantih, Amen, and all that jazz. People of all orientations and shades of mental illness flock to me in great numbers. Like shit on a stick, if I do say so myself, since in this scenario (only), I'm the stick.

Right.

Let's discuss my recent trip on the great M60. On Friday nights, this strolling, express-stopping White Whale of a bus eludes even the seasoned MetroCard holder. It's the truth. Try following its schedule and you'll quickly realize that the bus itself yields to no such parameters, not even the ones specifically designed for its route.

Look! There's the M60 now, laughing at your 20-minute wait!

No, in all honesty, the M60 looks like a gigantic white shoe box. The diesel hybrid electric bus-box careens around corners and onto wide-set streets such as 125th on its way to LaGuardia Airport.

This is a better representation:

I finally caught the great beast and gave it my card. I sat in a single seat beside a window so I would remember where I was. I sometimes forget the order of the streets, or if I don't forget, I have anxiety that the unstoppable M60 creature will take me to the airport and drop me on a plane to some distant beautiful place. Or wait, is that my deepest desire?

As I moved forward with the jaunty thing, other passengers joined me on my passage to Lenox. Or India, if my traveling wish were fulfilled. One distinguished character entered the bus, sat down across the aisle from me. He looked about 50, donning a cowboy hat, and a carefully chosen button down shirt accented by a crisply starched collar. He wore corduroys and brown leather shoes. He was well-put together, and different from the other men I had seen in my neighborhood. For a moment, I wondered if he was gay.

Minutes later, I discovered he was not. As I watched people pass on the sidewalk, I noticed his gaze fixed on something in my direction. The window, he's looking out the window, too, I told myself. We stopped at a light one avenue away from my destination. I absentmindedly turned in his direction, startled. He stared directly into my eyes, not out the window. No, he was not creating romantic fantasies about the ambling passersby. If he imagined anything romantic, it had to do with me.

How did I know?

I noticed his left hand on his thigh. I saw the bulge. I observed the pressure, the rhythm, the certain thumb-and-forefinger grip he had on his growing member. He didn't pull it out, no. I imagined him as a traditional gentleman, a fine upstanding, church-going community member who single-handedly (literally) stunted gentrification through bouts of public gesturing at white women.

Slightly rattled, I pressed the button to let me off. I wondered if he would follow me or if working it on the bus was enough for him. I became increasingly more disturbed as the hours passed. If only I could avoid the M60 or any bus or public transportation in general.

To think, I took the M60 home from Labyrinth, a bookstore on 112th Street. To think, I was at Labyrinth to hear Naomi Wolf read from her latest book. To think, this kind of sexual assault would come about as an indirect result of my participation in a feminist-y forum.

Oh, what's all this thinking going to do. I'd recommend for you to watch yourself on those buses, but I'm sure "they'll" find me before they get to you. Thank me later. With a food processor.

Stories that tell themselves (too much, too often)

2007-08-26T22:40:00.000-04:00

Here we go, blog. Here we go again.

See, I'm finding this daunting. "This" refers to posting on my blog. An "aha!" moment for us all. Conversing with an old comrade the other day, I recalled a moment from this past year when a student suggested I speak about Coming Out Day--how funny was that? Comrade jabbed, "Yeah I remember that story. I read it over and over again on your blog since you won't write new entries." I'm crying. Really. So here it is--an entry!--indulge.

I'm finding this daunting mostly because I've come across one too many bloggers who take their blogging all too seriously. Now, what does THIS mean? Simply: I'm tired of digesting the garbled voice of stifled nobodies who seek somebody-status through densely, never-deftly-conveyed blog posts. About the restaurants they've visited. Or the bums on the sidewalk. But never any commentary, no reflection whatsoever, not even a "good morning Baltimore"-esque meta-critique about their own stoic self-righteousness.

See? These bloggers I speak of irritate me to the very core--to the deepest, darkest place within!

As I write this, I recognize that I may write for an audience of one: myself. I'm okay with this. I'm not going to sit around, spouting Shakespeare--or surely less poetic prose-- with an overly elitist air. I dare not position myself as the wisest typist of the broadest band. No, no. That is foolish and I refuse to participate in any tom-snob-foolery of any kind.

You want some stories? Here. Have one or two or many or tell me your own. Please laugh and remember that you and me and everyone we know are flawed. Except for Miranda July, of course. She's one hot ticket.

1. Overfilling my gas tank. I'll teach a thing or two to you Joisey bOYs and goyls (read: garGOYLs). You sit in your SUVs with your mani-pedis and puffed hair, blasting non-white radio, as some foreigner pumps your gas. You stink of smug. I admit, I was once like you--possessed by a sense of fossil fuel entitlement. Then I moved to Montana and learned to pump for myself, for survival.

As I ventured back toward the Garden (of weed/toxmatoes) State, I made many stops at roadside gas stations. One particular night, near the end of a long-and-winding I-90 death stretch, my companion and I pulled into CENEX. This gas station is located in Mitchell, South Dakota. Some of you (or myself?) may remember that Mitchell is the site of the illustrious Corn Palace. Oooh, aaah. We may have visited the Corn Palace, but it was nearing midnight--and the Corn Palace is the stupidest "attraction" I've ever succumbed to.

My companion and I wearily exited the car. The flourescent lights beamed down on us, the lone customers, punishing our eyes with faux-bright. As Bird cleaned my windows--opaque with dead flies and remains of small mammals--I pumped the gas. Yes, I'll take Ultimate/91, I told myself as I inserted my credit card. I then helped my fine-feathered friend clean my windows. "Nicole," she screamed, "get over here and see this!!" I walked to the pump-side of the car with bleak expectations--is there really a small mammal on my car somewhere? Are there free passes to the Corn Palace littered on the floor? I never thought I'd find what I found that night: gas pouring out of my gas tank and all over the car, the cement, my hands, everywhere.

Take a moment to truly understand this scenario. It's midnight in Mitchell, South Dakota (aka NOWHERE, USA); we're near the Corn Palace; CENEX is one of the few gas stations open on this road and there's still only 2 cars (including my own) at the station. Now there's gas spilling out of the tank. Has this ever happened to you? Didn't think so.

Instead of freaking out and lighting a match or performing an equally intelligent action, I banged on the gas pump (a little trick I learned from back east) and marched into the CENEX convenient store under the spell of soul-sucking fluorescence.

"Um, excuse me? The gas pump out there--number 4? Yeah, you see the grey VW. Okay, that's my car. So, I asked the pump to stop at full and it kept going and now there's gas all over the floor." It was complicated, so sympathize with the wordiness.
"Oh, oh. Oh, okay! So, is there a lot of gas?" the strangely calm clerk replied.
"Is there a lot of gas? Well, there's enough? Um, I'm just gonna leave now, okay?"
"Sure."
...
Right. I didn't hear much about the CENEX. Maybe it blew up--at the hands of the store clerk's match. The world will never know.

Hundreds of miles later, at a different gas station--was it bp?--I cleaned the now-dried gas off my car paint with a little bit of jojoba shampoo and a bottle of water. Bird took a picture of this action. A mere milestone on our trek home.

2. Dinosaur buddies.

Bird and I went to the Field Museum in Chicago. Chicago is in Illinois, which is not pronounced Illi-noise. I still think Oregon is pronounced O-re-gone even though I've been there. The state of New Jersey and I agree that the pronunciation of Oregon is indeed O-re-gone, but we've come to a consensus that Illi-noise is all wrong. Which is true.

The Field Museum houses Sue. Who's Sue? What's the big deal abou Sue? Well, Sue is a dinosaur. A T-Rex? That's still alive. It's amazing.

Very exciting. What was really exciting was Sue's gift shop. Bird and I had a good time wholly embracing Sue's peers and her predecessors. How did we do this?

We tried on dinosaur masks and fashioned tails on our bums or around our heads. We pretended we were dinoosaurs--witih cameras. Duh.

We're learn-ed now.

3. Last one, I swear. It's about a monkey. You like monkeys. Keep reading.
Did you know that South Bend, Indiana has an awesome zoo? Correct--the University of Notre Dame isn't the only OR best! attraction.

The zoo is. Clearly.

This is why: They've got nice animals, yeah, but they have one special primate. An ape, a chimpanzee named Jodi.

That's her. She's cute, no?
What's so special about Jodi you ask? Well, take a look.

You'd think that says it all--it must!--but it doesn't.

Not only is Jodi diabetic, she's the South Bend sex-pot. I had a little chat with the zoo keeper who we'll call Jane G. The wise, ape-knowing Jane G. told me that the spry 19-year-old Jodi is also on the Pill. Which pill? The BIRTH CONTROL PILL. Jane G. informed me that chimps like Jodi live until they're about 55 years old.

This means Jodi's about 25 or so--she's looking for someone to love; to share a lair with; to mate with and mold their children grow into Ivy League material. Wait, that's sounding familiar, maybe not Jodi's situation though. Apparently, Jodi can't keep the other agile apes away from her and she wants to wait for kids until she's set on her career and able to inject her insulin herself. Well, what it comes down to is this: I'm a newly 23-year-old female who is not on the Pill and is not looking to settle down; and is probably not on the Pill because I don't have suitors banging down my door. Yet I feel this ape (note: I use "ape" lovingly) seems to have more prospects on the horizon--evidently--than I can even dream of.

Such is life. You can live behind bars and have it all, or stray and wait--forge your path, forget the Pill.

Pabst Blue Ribbon Fairy Tales

2007-03-19T22:03:00.000-04:00

Quick question: Have you heard the one about the drunk-driving woman who ran over and killed her own husband? You haven't? Weird. Wait, wait. How about the time the man charged with a DUI accused a unicorn of driving his truck into a pole? Haven't heard that one either? How strange. Maybe you live in an area of America where IPA isn't on tap ... in your bathroom sink. Out here where I live, these tall tales grow taller by the minute, never stop anyone from driving drunk as long as that local brew keeps flowin'.

Hmm, where to begin. Well, I should establish the above suppositions as fact, as far as newsprint fact goes. That's a good place to start.

On a wintry afternoon in ol' Montana, a couple--the wife in her 60s, the husband 50s--drove out to a little watering hole near Frenchtown. She drove her Toyota along Interstate 90, or "the freeway," as folks out here say, parked her car in a dirt covered lot beside the bar. She and her husband reveled in pints of Pabst and Moose Drool in the waning afternoon, sharing laughter over obviously very funny jokes and situations they remembered. Then, suddenly, Sir Moose Drool left Lady Pabst with the tab and made his way home on foot in the early evening. As the night wore on, Lady Pabst decided she missed her dear hubby and headed home in her trusty Toyota, speeding along the freeway as darkness fell upon her and other night dwellers. Lady Pabst confidently steered her auto into her driveway and parked her body in her bed and slept until morn.

There's Lady Pabst and Sir Moose Drool! Showin their brands, hangin' tough!

Then, it was the morning that struck her. Where was her husband, she wondered. Good goody that she was, Lady Pabst made haste back toward the bar, searching for her husband. In her hungover state, Lady Pabst failed to notice the gigantic hair-and-blood encrusted crack in her windshield. She saw a fallen man and uniforms forming patterns on the opposite side of the road. Lady Pabst swung back around and pulled to a stop. At the core of the gathering, she viewed the fallen man: her husband, Sir Moose Drool. What happened to him, oh I'm his wife, yes I was out with him last night: she rattled on for minutes on end, and then the detectives noticed her car and the enormous circle of fractured glass. Did she hit an animal on the way here, they wanted to know. No, I don't remember hitting anything, she told them. How could she remember anything? She ain't no Lady O'Douls.

The uniformed men determined that the dead man was her husband and that she was at fault. (Note: Due to the small population, it is likely that her car in fact killed him. It's a sophisticated science out here.) Somehow, somewhere some court determined that she didn't intend to kill her husband. A tough case to manage, I imagine, but one must consider the clear cut motive: the bar tab. That couple stalled out at that bar for a good five hours. Did he really make her pay for her share and his? Was she aiming for his lumbering figure on the Interstate? The world will never know.

Can you believe it? Wrap your mind around this next one.

Here's the second tale, a shorter one. This time figments, rather than tipsy wives, wreak havoc on unsuspecting objects.

A Billings man, last name Holliday (Madonna style), got his fix at a local bar one night just a few weeks back. It wasn't long until Holliday had his fill of sweet nectar of the hops. Or, conversely, it was long, but Holliday got tired of the same ol', same ol' company he kept at this bar. He was looking for something fun and fantasmical. And that's what he found.

Holliday drove a truck--though he probably still drives and what he drives is undoubtedly a truck--a pick-up to be exact. Ever been in a pick-up truck? They're sure roomy in some ways, but they don't have the highest ceilings. In other words, you gotta gauge the gallons of your hat before getting in.

Anyway, when Holliday hopped into his truck, his situatiaon spun out of control, literally. In some ways, the unicorn probably saved him, but "we'll" never know what truly happened. Oh, what's that, you ask? Yes, Holliday accused a unicorn, the most magically mythical figure of all, for drunkedly driving his truck. The rim of his 10-gallon hat covered his eyes as the unicorn mounted the driver's side. Witnesses of this incredible moment are spellbound by the majesty of the unicorn's driving. You have to admit, a hand-less unicorn driving a pick-up is quite the image.

Isn't the unicorn docile and endearing? It would never drive drunk! And do you see how tiny that guy's truck is? Give me a break!

After "they" hit the pole and the media rode the unicorn into the sunset, Holliday corrected the believers. A recent headline under the "Montana" section of the newspaper read "Prosecutor: Man did not blame unicorn in DUI case." He would hire a smart lawyer, wouldn't he.

Okay, I'm going to throw my two cents in. To be quite honest, I think it's obvious that the unicorn wasn't the one to blame in this situation. Holliday spent too much time carousing at his favorite bar and got in the truck with the wrong dude. It wasn't a unicorn. Could it have been? No way! A unicorn would never fit in this guy's truck, first of all. Have you seen the horns on them? They're huge! Second, just because they're magical doesn't mean they can sit upright just like the rest of us with drivers licenses. And last of all, his pick-up definitely didn't have a moon roof. Hell, it didn't have a sun roof! How was the unicorn supposed to even see where he wanted to go?

I may be the only person in Montana who knows what happened that night. I'll let you in on my secret: it was a leprechaun named Laffy on stilts who rammed Holliday's truck into a light post. Doesn't that feel a little bit more logical than a unicorn? Laffy was in the bar with Holliday, sipping a Guiness, playing it cool, and noticed Holliday's Celtic tattoo. Aha, Laffy thought, this is my kind of guy. Who ever said that leprechauns are totally hetero? That's a really crazy assumption, actually. Laffy hopped into the staggering Holliday's truck and pushed him aside. Every self-respecting leprechaun totes stilts for the sort of situation that presented itself. Holliday played a little too rough with Laffy and that's precisely when "things got out of hand."

That's Laffy! Isn't he happy and gay?

No wonder the guy retracted his statement about the unicorn. The truth is hard enough to hear.

I want you to know that I've changed the names to protect the guilty. I've changed the names because I prefer the names I suggest over their given ones.

Only in Montana? I sure as hell hope so.

America's Youth: Less Service, More Drugs

2007-03-14T23:55:00.000-04:00

Have you heard the word, Ferd? What I mean by "Ferd" is "friend"? I'm just having some trouble with language lately.

So, the Ferdy word I'm talking about is National and Global Youth Service Day or NGYSD or NGYSDABCDEFGHZ. At one point, my colleagues and I referred to it as GYNday, which is probably not something I should write on the internet. Oh, I suppose this "blog" is anonymous anyway, right? Well, when Youth Serve America breaks down my door, I'll start to worry. Until then, I'll just laugh about BadAcronymDay (BAD).

Okay, wait, I have a question: Why am I getting weird porn people comments on my blog? Is there anything sex-related? Do I sound interested to you? I'd like your feedback.

Pressing forward, Ferds.

So, BAD. Well, it's not so bad. I guess. Why don't I provide some background? Sure, I'll do that, alright. BAD is a gigantic service event happening all over the globe, or "wherever Angelina leads." I didn't say that. Wait, I did say that. I was just using quotes to mislead you for a moment. I'm over that moment. You?

BAD could be the most amazing event to grace the WORLD just because youth determine how to serve their communities in important and effective ways. Sounds awesome? Pretty much.

Get this: Service can only happen when "the right people" say so. Service: a potentially populist notion, surely, but this bureacratic hopscotch gets under my skin. Allow me to explain.

Our little youth (the 0-17 year old students) decided they wanted to increase the number of trash cans in Missoula, and decorate the new receptacles to boot. Wow, crazy idea! They're only encouraging folks to pick up after themselves and doing it with artistic flair. Do you have the inclination to shoot down this idea then send a dog after it to pick it up and bring it back to you like defenseless flying fowl? ME TOO!

Actually, I wouldn't. I hate the idea of hunting, and sending a dog after the prey is crossing a line I don't even want to approach (but, in a way, I have). Also, the little youth went after that community need like none other (hunter). Take that 501(c)3s! I admitted to the group that I'm a belligerent litterer, which made the trash can idea's relevance resound.

Bad news for BAD: Trash cans are trash. I was hoping it wouldn't happen, but it did.

Onto the next topic: Upgrading parks - what a concept! Art, native grasses and flowers, free music every night, a hot dog vendor. Oh wait, sounds like a park in a faraway place.

In Missoula, allowing little youths to beautify outdoor areas must break laws. I'm so happy they've deprioritized marijuana now that I realize teenagers are barred from creating aesthetically engaging venues for tomorrow's generation. Community service is a much bigger problem out west than marijuana. Actually, community service nearly beats meth as the most detrimental agent in our community. Haven't you seen the commercials?

Once the Parks idea was nixed, we moved onto the slightly daunting undertaking of the Bark Park walkway. Stop rolling your eyes. You'd love the Bark Park. It's a park of bark. Yeah, that's right. There's a ton of trees. Sometimes dogs scamper around the trees, hoping for a barky obstacle course.

So there aren't any trees in the Bark Park, but a ParksRec birdy Ferdy told us that we could build a walkway. Who the hell knows how to build a walkway? I didn't learn that in my VISTA training, believe it or not, and I'm pretty sure they don't teach "cement pouring" in AP English. Maybe my high school was an exception, though.

A visitor of the Bark Park told us that the walkway is already cemented. Okay. What the fuck? Do you know? Parks and Rec Ferdy nerdys clearly have their ducks in a row. No hunting anaology, please. This is serious.

Is there a moral to this story? Yes. Don't try to perform service in your community. You'll get shut down, shunned, told that you're an idealistic dreamer, and probably be driven to drink. Service is bad for America's youth. Missoula tells me so.

Anyway, BAD better become BAD-ass lickity split else I'm gonna throw a fit in city hall. Or, you know, just get over it.

Sure, I'll talk about National Coming Out Day and represent all the other marginalized groups I'm pigeon-holed into.

2006-10-11T21:31:00.000-04:00

That's a pretty long post title. You should know that a dire necessity exists in the lengthiness of that subject title. Hey, you know what? I have a story about it. Listen in! (I should warn you that listening to your computer monitor is probably hazardous to your mental health. Why don't you just read along and we'll all be safe and sane together!)

Slowly but surely I'm doing my job. Actually, it feels like my heart beats to the time of our school bell schedule. Translation: I nearly drop dead on the weekends. It's really too bad; I'm just that dedicated.

Aren't we all.

One of the projects I pretend to work on pertains to the Free and Reduced Lunch Program. From here on out, I shall refer to this is as FRLP, which is fun to pronounce as a word (fir-lip noun: hairy lip (on women); exterior of fir tree mouth, from middle english). I'm interested in the stigma of FRLP as manifested in the paper tickets poor and low income students exchange for lunch each day.

This is a FRLP ticket. Some people think it's a "drawing" when I show it to them. If you look carefully, you'll notice a bite mark on the top left corner of the ticket, and the mysterious "5" a the bottom right of this ticket should clue you into its authenticity.

I wanted real perspectives about this issue from real students. Can you blame me? They're the ones using the tickets and participating in the discgusting ritual that is high school. Oh, it's not so bad. I say "disgusting" as though it in some way resembled the experience of drinking spoiled milk or watching someone's teeth get knocked out of their head. It's not "disgusting" like that, but you must admit that high school is a painful situation for some. I wanted to know all about that pain, so I sat in on a Title I reading class and held "focus groups" with the students.

The first few classes went fine. I connected with a few students about poverty and the instances they've struggled through; the goals they set despite their situation; yadda yadda yadda. In one class, a student told me that people who live in poverty don't work hard and are in poverty because they probably don't take opportunities to get out of poverty. Normally, this type of comment would elicit unbridled rage and anger within my usually peaceful soul, but I restrained myself and tried to face his somewhat insular perspective with cold hard facts. I feel proud of the way I handled that, but we're not here to stroke my ego. I mean, I'm not here to stroke my ego.

According to google images, this is what "hard work" and "poverty" looks like. Maybe that kid was right. I can see the EBT card sticking out of one of their pockets. Oh wait, no, it's a Disney World credit card. Shucks. Thanks for the true depiction!

Anyway, third period rolled around and in walked five people. Only one seemed to possess speaking capabilities, which is fine. I wasn't there to force them into answering anything they didn't want to answer. With this group, though, it was tough getting them to tell me their name and grade. Before the bell rang, the only girl in the class struts in with her pink Doc Martens-like footwear, a faux cowgirl shirt (like, one from Old Navy?), and tight jeans. She sits down between two boys who don't seem to know her, yet she proceeds to prop her legs atop them. I could "sense" how they felt at the moment.

Well, Suzy Q (a fake name in the interest of confidentiality) looks at me and instinctively asks, "Are you here to talk for National Coming Out Day?"

My face dropped. I can't even imagine the look I gave her. I mumbled "... No?" and she proceeded, "Oh, I was just wondering since 'people' were coming into some of my friends' classes to talk about being gay and lesbian and bisexual and all that."

"Oh," I uttered. "Well, I could talk about that too. If you want?"

Suzy Q laughed and quickly turned to one of her "boyfriends"/makeshift furniture and exclaimed, "My friend Jonah/Claire/Apple/Seven said (s)he was glad to be here for me today because he told everyone that I was bisexual and it's funny that he said that. Because it's funny."

Teacher turns to Suzy Q and asks, "Well, it's National Coming Out Day today. Aren't you supposed to out yourself instead of having someone else out you?"

Funny, teacher, I wondered something similar.

The period crawled by. As I said, this wasn't a talkative bunch. Toward the end of the period, when we could hear the dead flies' gradual decomposition resound, Suzy Q said to me, "I didn't mean to offend you or anything before. About the Coming Out Day thing that I said."

I told her it was fine. What I meant by that was: I'm in a relationship, and this is proof that gaydar in fact exists.

In the following periods, students accused me of poverty-related voyeurism, told me I was "ridiculous" for doing the work I do, and basically suggested I leave Missoula and live on a reservation.

Nice kids, right? Right! That's why I love working at a school. For all of you out there who should be teachers: it isn't really that bad. Hey, if you aren't part of a marginalized group, you'll be fine. As a female, you may sense sexism from your Republican male students, but if you're white and straight, the kids should come around by December. If you're lucky.

It's funny because I always talk about how non-heteros in Montana have different signifiers than those folks in cities like New York. I guess my theory is wrong. Or maybe Suzy Q and I know each other from Catalyst, the local coffee shop that attracts lesbians and straight people who don't know that lesbians work/eat/drink there.

Ah, life is so fun. And please, everyone, before you forget: Do come out. If you aren't sure what to come out as, I hear "heterosexual" is a popular choice among folks these days.

Ha! That's hysterical!

2006-09-27T22:38:00.001-04:00

Greetings from the West. Oh, you should have seen the sun set tonight. A wondrous array of colors: peaches and oranges and bananas? No, not quite.

(applause/laughter)

This post is not intended to be about me, per se, but I want to share with you something very important that's happening in my life. I'm helping high school students quit smoking (standing ovation, hurrah).

As a non-smoker who ex-smoked, I don't remember anyone at school taking an interest about my constant puffing. Maybe they didn't know. But they should have.

That's me smoking. And being blonde at Coney Island--now that's another story!

Anyway, it's a pleasure of mine to share knowledge and experience with these students. I'm grateful to have the opportunity, really.

(in unison: "aw!")

So, hysteria. That's what I'm thinking about. I've been hysterical all day about the prospect of having a hysterectomy when I'm only 23. Oh wait, no, that's not me, I just heard that story from someone else. She wasn't hysterical either. Funny, it's probably because she doesn't have HYSTERIA, you know, because it DOES NOT EXIST.

Ah, and then we return to the New York Times. The pulse of the universe. And we've all been victimized by the Times, but none more than women.

Okay, let's remember Times sexism together:

- Men are better at telling if someone else is angry, which is pretty obvious if you already think that all women are like Helen Keller (and she was a tremendous woman, don't get me wrong, but you know what I mean--deaf, ..., and blind). Ol' Hell--that's what we used to call her--she could never sense anger in another human being, unless Annie S. (or Sully) rearranged the furniture on her.

- What else. Oh, Maureen Dowd. Enough said!

- The most feminine of Times sections, 'Fashion & Style,' consistently has the stupidest articles I've ever read. I suppose they consider certain "trends" they've "discovered" to be fashionable and bearing style. I don't. I'm not them, though.

- "Is Hysteria Real? Brain Images Say Yes" is today's prime example. I'm certain you and I could create a nice scavenger hunt as we search (lightly) throughout the Times for sexist suppositions.

This article about hysteria is in the Science section--hilarious! This would be better suited for Fash/Sty.

You see, the Times will fool you. You might begin reading an article, laugh a bit about the idiosyncracies the writer leverages for your attention. Oh yes, then you'll come across a line like this: "The word [hysteria] seems murky, more than a little misogynistic and all too indebted to the theorizing of the now-unfashionable Freud." You'll think, "Oh, NYT, that word is a little bit murky." You'll be glad they concede to the misogynistic overtone, and you'll switch off you're critical meter for the rest of the article.

Don't do it. Hysteria should be something better left for Women's Studies classes when we say, "Man, the APA really manipulates gender in the DSM, doesn't it? Let's all makeout." No, I'm kidding about the "manipulate" part; 'tis too strong a word.

This article claims that there have been symptoms of hysteria, and that these symptoms have never gone away since "The Yellow Wallpaper." Well, now there's brain imaging to prove that women are crazy .. because they're women. Really, all they had to do was check between our legs, and they'd know why we act the way we do.

See, let me unfold the logic I'm using: "Hysteria" is an affliction that can only affect females. Thus, it is supposedly defined by female-specific behaviors, which therefore turns the cycle a few degrees further--how do we define females, then? Depends on whether they're hysterical or not. Men are stable, women are unstable. Hysteria, as an idea in our culture, corroborates the assumed instability of women.

When the NYT throws around some half-assed experiement with a microwave, they make an impression on the world, unfortunately. Oh, so when women are getting their periods and feel really irritable and uneasy and irrepressible, and just acting down right different, it means they're hysterical, right? Wrong, of course, but there's always a "lay" trickle down of a word, and this is how it's gonna go down.

Of course, they mention that there is no univeral diagnostic criteria for hysteria among doctors. Does this even matter? NYT has already told me that hysteria still exists! NYT likens hysteria to a paralysis similar to that of a deer facing a semi-death truck. I'm embellishing that statement some. They remind us that women embody stress in our culture. It's nice that there isn't a diagnostic criteria for that, eh?

Here's my beef: What if it's something different? Are we settling with an antiquated misogynistic term because it's available to us? (Because we can?) Is it because this new brain imaging has something to do with Freud (and cocaine)? If we create a new neurological disorder, and do more research to see if by any chance this happens in men, can we have a new article? "We" = all women.

Thanks NYT. Thanks for caring and shitting all over us yet again.

I know the source for uncritical perspectives and sexist topic choice! And it ain't FOX!

Unapologetically neglectful.

2006-09-17T22:25:00.000-04:00

Okay, so maybe I'm hoping you'll be just a little bit apologetic about my neglect. Seriously. I'm starting this new job, which I so happen to simultaneously adore and feel frustrated about--must be incredible, eh?

Yesterday, it snowed in Missoula. Here is a photo of snow and clouds, and wintry September wonderland.

Yes. What fun, what fun, you can't even imagine.

Hey, I'll give you a list of what I've been doing. Maybe we can start a feminist discourse and analyze my list and talk about gender and the intersections of cyberfeminism and my usual militant liberal feminism. Oh, wait, someone else is doing that already. DAMN! (I'm just kidding, friend. Oh, friend, you've always understood that I joke with you in this way because I adore you so; because you are the only person who can take that kind of (cyber)ribbing, lovely.)

1. Learning about Indians.

No, not the kind from India. No, not Sacajawea either, although there is a Sacajawea Park in MIssoula. It's by Orange Street Food Farm which is one of my favorite places in the entire world. I'm not sure if many Indians frequent this supermarket, but they should. I hear they've got good biscuits.

Okay, okay, I'm off-track already. Yeah, so that's a pretty big topic. Let's talk about it later.

2. Tutoring. Suddenly, I'm a Shakespeare tutor. This is a pretty sweet development. Be proud of me. I'm turning into a high school teacher. I told my "student" that I'd provide her with a "workbook" of sorts that summarize and point out key factors in each play she's reading. Yes, I'll be doing that with sonnets too. If you are ever thinking about teaching Shakespeare at a high school level, do contact me for this information. (Listen, I haven't made it yet, so don't get your hopes up.)

3. Walking with teachers from the school where I "work." Oh, so fun. We walked "up the Rattlesnake." Don't say it. I know it sounds dirty and weird, and potentially dangerous ( are there really rattlesnakes? ), but it was grand. We didn't see any bears or bobcats (shucks!) but we did see a beautiful lady deer. One walking partner asked the lady deer where her baby was. I, too, wondered about the baby deer.

4. Reading about poverty. You must be thinking, "God, here we go again with this poverty crap." No, it isn't crap. And you're a JERK for saying/thinking that. (We'll omit and forget about the fact that you never said anything hurtful about poverty.) I love Barbara Ehrenreich and wish to be her some day. Or be like her. I'm not interested in stealing identities, though I know some white girl who's pilfered the identity of a South American textile worker. Yeah, she's nogu. More on that in private.

5. Watching movies about poverty. I'd like to hold a workshop at school about poverty (Breakfast of Champions!: Waging a Living and Other Tidbits Chock Full of Poverty Facts). No, I won't call it that. You would call it that, but I won't. And I think I'll quit the paranoid schizophrenic persona and "find myself" through the rest of my list.

6. Regulating Jangle. Something else that sounds dirty. Jangle is the name I've given the dog who lives next door. He happens to "jangle" as he walks since his owners have fastened three collars around him. I think he's wearing a cross, Star of David, a horseshoe and dolphin, a few other charms, and finally a name tag that surely reads something other than Jangle (something with less pizazz). He's sweet. I don't regulate him, but I didn't want to type another word that began with "w."

7. Arranging flowers/vegetables. Don't act like you know what I'm talking about. I like to arrange flowers. I also like to arrange vegetables (not in vases, but in bowls). As I'm sure you're aware, I enjoy photography. Most days, I take pictures of vegetables. It is a new hobby. I've found I'm unsatisfied with landscape portraits, so vegetables it is!

8. Laughing. Hysterically. At everything. (Feel free to laugh at me smelling the dahlias. They aren't black, and that movie kinda sucked.)

9. Volunteering. That's what my "job" technically is. Today I also volunteered to lift heavy things and arrange second-hand "finds." This happened at a Peace Festival that I ended up not even attending. What kind of heavy things did I lift, you ask? Mostly chopped up wood. The tree surgeon went to town in somebody's back yard, methinks. And what second-hand "finds" did I arrange? Good question. Children's books and costumes (a tiger, a bee!), jewelry, peace hats. You own a peace hat, right? Doesn't everyone?

Yeah. So, basically, I've had little to no time for blogging. See, blogging would have been number 10 if I had more time. As you can see, I have 9 long-winded reasons to not blog.

Maybe some day, when I make my way to higher schooling, I will have more time to post on my blog. For now, the real world calls--like 10 times a day. it's really annoying!--but I've got call back and say something about stopping poverty from polluting the atmosphere of our society. And preventing a bobcat from eating Jangle. 'Round these parts, though, we're all wise enough to know a bobcat'd never eat a dog with a charm bracelet. The "city's" safe enough tonight.

Montana at last, at last Montana

2006-08-01T15:27:00.000-04:00

I don't have internet. I'm supposed to be living at the poverty level, which might explain why I don't have internet. But that doesn't say a thing because I've just ordered internet, and it's costing me between $50-100 or maybe it's $1,000. One can never be sure about things like the internet, or prices, or why I don't qualify for food stamps.

You might not read this blog any more, and I don't blame you. I, of all people, should know a thing or two about keeping one's audience satisfied (and at arm's length). Apologies.

Today I'm thinking a lot about poverty. Yesterday I was thinking a lot about poverty too, and this will probably continue into tomorrow and the next day and next week. Essentially, I'm dedicating a year of my life to submerging myself mentally, emotionally, and physically in the topic of poverty.

Hmm, don't think he's from Montana, do you? He's poverty-stricken, and the first white person I found after I searched "poverty" in Google images was Matt Damon-four pages later. ?

It looks different here, poverty. It isn't dressed in some homeless getup, some dungarees and old white reeboks and too big sweaters or North Face jackets (lucky, lucky). And it doesn't show itself as gymnastically-talented hobos doin' a flip and extending a cup on the subway every now and then. It also isn't BLACK here and by BLACK I mean NON-WHITE. See, I'm just trying to keep in step with American race and ethnicity (or should I say cultural? Diversity?) rhetoric. That's to say poverty isn't COLORED here since we all know white is seldom considered a "race" or "ethnicity" (unless you think white is the only race, and then, well, there are some of that out here, too).

And the "lack of color" thing is definitely a problem. Because many impoverished are white, they seem to be overlooked or mistaken for someone of just low-income, or at the bottom rung of middle-class. "At first glance" reassurance is enough to write-off the very serious problem Montanans face.

Get this: Say you get a job here at Wal-Mart, okay it might be enough for you, but what about your kids? You have to get another service job, but wait--Are you making too much money to qualify for government programming now? Like food stamps and WIC? You are. You have to quit your new job, and then you can't save any money because if you do, you'll lose all your social aid, but if you don't, you'll never get out of this rut. You'll never go to college or vocational school to better your chances of getting another, higher-paying job. Your kids won't go to college either because they won't see the value in education, and will think, "I can get a job here that pays just or almost as much without a college degree." You won't get out, they won't either.

That kind of thing happens everywhere, but don't we usually assume some non-white person is going to wait on us at Wal-Mart? Or at McDonald's? Or some kid will? No, adults do that here, and they're predominantly white. You think, oh she must be alright and okay and getting by working at Missoula Wal-Mart, but she's just getting by and her kids probably have jobs too, or no one to watch or take care of them while she's at work, and they (3, let's say) all share the same room. You don't see the divide between you and her as easily because, to a certain extent, she is the same as you. So you don't think it's a problem, for anyone.

This is how they usually dress, just like Sacagawea in the good ol' days. The baby in the snow shoe is a common fashion trend 'round here. So is walking around with Aerosoles mocs.

Don't even get me started on the American Indians-these are the REALLY poor people of Montana, but I think it's safe to say that most of us think of Sacagawea and Crazy Horse, buffalo and tall horses, tipis and wigwam--but not blue jeans and punk rock, or long unbraided dark hair or first names like Luke and Steven that sound more American, more normal. In short, we forget they exist in houses and Levi's, and go to schools where white people go, where other financially-unable students attend. We write off their ways as culturally-based and thus impenetrable, so they have lower academic achievement than even white poverty kids because at least the white poverty kids are white, and that's a little bit more relatable. At least we can connect with them enough to make a difference.

Wow. I just feel there's so much to say. Next time, I'm going to write about college education and Montana-that ties in here, but this is already long and I need to research more about ... poverty.

I'm alive, I swear!

2006-07-14T16:23:00.000-04:00

You'd think I abandoned writing, or going online, or checking my or other people's blogs/ljs/myspaces/facebooks four thousand times per day.

No, I didn't give up any of that. I've just been driving, lots.

Well friends, you won't be seeing me for some time ... unless you live in Montana (and western Montana, at that). At a sunny six AM July 9, I geared up and got lost ... but not lost at all, I had a wonderful atlas and driving companion. 2300 miles later we ended up in Missoula, Montana. It was QUITE the trip. We visited a place called the Corn Palace where we bought postcards and "authentic" popcorn. We traversed - super-speed-limiting - along an inter-state/gallactic highway that surely stretches forever, further west and then into the galaxy, paving stairways toward Mars. We visited the Badlands, found eerie beauty in the desert(ed) plains and unique rock formations, but shook this feeling once we entered Wall, SD - little beauty, mostly eerie, or just plain strange. But at Wall we bought magnets, which now decorate our refrigerator. We stayed in Sundance, WY, where the only supermarket in town closes at 8 pm, and got pulled over by a cop - we missed a stop sign, were let go with a warning ("When you're some place you don't know, be sure to pay attention to stop signs"), and the next day made our way to Devil's Tower. We ate good salads at the co-op and then got cheap Cold Stone ice cream from a little princess I know.

It's been real, and incredible, and I love it here. And I know what you're thinking - "It hasn't snowed yet though."

Soon I'll write more about ... people here and lots of other things.

Say It With Me, NYTimes: Embodiment. Very Good!

2006-06-13T09:24:00.000-04:00

Not surprisingly, I have a problem with an article in today's New York Times. Really, what else is new? Actually, I have many problems wtih today's Times, or TT as I will refer to it from here on out. I have problems with yesterday's Times and last week's, last year's, last summer's (do you remember that article about the bisexual male study? WTF?!), and forever and ever Amen.

A glimpse at TT with commentary:
1. Seems to me this newspaper thinks it's a blog. I don't read the paper-paper edition, but the article about TMZ.com is sure to be in there. Fascinating. Straphangers from Morningside Heights to Wall Street must be thoroughly enamored by the wondrous Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt coverage this paper shoves into about three to five precious articles each week. Garrison Keillor would be proud!
2. Oh yes. If I have to see one more A Prairie Home Companion ad on this Web site, I'll write about it on my blog. Wow. See how severe the situation is? I think someone at their Web site is sweet on Ms. Lohan, or Fire Crotch, as the breaker of news might name her about a month after that was cool (though it was never cool).
3. "For Some, Online Persona Undermines a Resume" is a really brilliant title. So brilliant, in fact, you don't even need to read the article to understand what it's about. Hey, I never thought that my future employers might have gone to college. Or might be recent graduates even. Hey, they might have Facebook accounts! And even if they didn't go to high school, I bet they still have MySpace if they've got their trusty Library Card and 15 minutes to cyberstalk while at the Public Library computer kiosks! THANKS FOR ILLUMINATING THAT NYTIMES.COM!
4. OK. There are many others - Hell! I could write about TT for hours! This next article is the one that helped me decide what to write about today. Thank you TT for so clearly articulating my disgust with such an "esteemed" publication.

Found in the Mental Health and Behavior section (or Health, online), it is called "Men are Better at Ferreting Out that Angry Face in the Crowd." I love the title, don't you? "Ferreting out" is a phrase I use all the time! Especially about situations such as this one, where someone is forced to determine, who, at their cocktail party, is angry or terrified. Again, thanks for keeping us on our toes TT!

I'll give you a brief brief synopsis, but, as usual, the article doesn't explain in enough detail the point/motivation for the study nor any particulars (are these men and women American? Yes, we assume they are. But they don't say it). Bear with me. Don't get angry, either. If I were a man, I'd be able to tell you were angry from a mile away! It's a survival strategy! Hey, that's a good enough synopsis for me. And you can read the article online, my friends.

This article is going to be in Current Biology, which just blows me away since it seems the article fails to explain connections between the psychology and how this is grounded in some tried and true biological difference(s) between men and women. In OTHER WORDS, if this study were in a psychology journal, that is one thing - the audience is filled with people who believe this bullshit. In a biological journal, on the other hand, the audience is geared toward reading articles with the assumption in mind that what they are reading is somehow biologically linked. That may sound simplistic, but it isn't. Maybe they should put the article in Hello! or JANE and see how people interpret it. Just think about that for a moment - but not too long, I have more to say.

When I first began reading this artlcle, I thought it was about picking out angry/terrified faces in a crowd. But no. It's really about the so-called cognitive differences between men and women, and pointing that out for the millionth time. At the end, they say that it's an evolutionary development that men and women respond at different rates to threatening faces. I guess, that's pretty duh, and I'm not sure why a study needs to be done about that. Oh, right, to remind us that women aren't good at directions, and that - duh - women need men.

See her? She's looking for Cherry Tree Rd., where her dying grandmother lives. She's trying really really hard to read a map. A few moments after this picture was taken, a nice, masculine man came along and helped her find her way. She asked the nice man if he could direct her to a CVS in the neighborhood, and he shrugged, and then walked away to help another confused young woman. She has her period and needs tampons. Do you know why he didn't know where CVS was? Because women only know where they are based on landmarks, whereas men actually know the roads. All this boils down to men having the abstract cognitive ability to envision context, location, and direction, whereas women just know where they are by the CVS and Wawas they might have stumbled across.

This is what the article suggests. I don't believe that. Hello? I am a woman (I'm checking right now) and I can follow directions and know where I'm going based on road maps and signs. I can also do MATH AND SCIENCE. If you take the logic of this article one step further, their arguments reinforce that age-old MYTH that men are better at math and science than women. Nowadays, in a quasi-feminist world, women excel at math and science. Forty years ago, only little boys would answer math questions in class, while the girls knew everything about pot roast. How did this change?

Well! Someone started this trend where they decided maybe girls should try math and science, and that maybe they could be good at it if they were given the opportunity. A kind of embodiment - women are using their cognitive abilities differently now, is that affecting their brain structure and neuronal pathways? Can we exceed the limits of other people's expectations when we take minority status? I cannot feasibly believe this study in TT actually has anything to do with real biology or biological evolution. It sounds like social evolution, or, more specifically, a cheap attempt to essentialize men and women's cognitive abilities. Yet again.

What do you think?

Fun with Names: Shorty, Curly, Moe, Happy & BG

2006-06-09T22:03:00.000-04:00

I'm self-conscious.

OK. I said it. You are too. Save your denial for therapy, please. Together we can move forward to this post and then maybe we, as a team, can find out why I'm self-conscious.

I say that I'm self-conscious this time around because I found out that my friends read this, like, actually. And they think it's "hilarious." A brilliant one--who is, for some reason, getting a higher degree in women and gender studies (of all things)--told me she might write her thesis about blogging, feminism, all that, and that this blog-monster I'm feeding could be her subject. Now, I'm probably ruining my chances by calling her out.

Maybe this is a good thing.

I will tell you a few stories about my day. Today, I had the unfortunate honor of attending my friend's father's funeral. Unfortunate for obvious reasons; an honor because that's what it means for me to be part of her life.

NOTE: I am going to re-name my friends with labels I find more appropriate than their actual names. I'm preserving anonymity and having fun while I'm at it.

Story #1: Hard to Drive.
En route le funeral home, I picked up Shorty in Princeton. Shorty and I had a nice cup of cawfee at some Foer-phile cafe. While we were sharing her/our soy latte, she reminded me that "five people in NJ have an accent" and that I'm one of them. Good to know.

Though we sensed its presence, Shorty and I could not find the funeral home. You know, non-NJ natives used to tell me that my precious state is hard to navigate, that the signs mislead, that all the drivers on the roads are bastards, etc. I've never disputed the temperament of my fellow NJ driver's license holders (I wonder if they have their marriage certificates handy? F*ck that!), but I've never agreed with the roadway complexities.

I retract my former statements on the matter: NJ roads make no sense. At all.

Imagine an intersection (like this one).

See how the road is clearly marked? A rare occasion. This intersection happens to be in Newark. Translation: shit better be labeled. Or else.

Unlike Newark, some of New Jersey still reminds me of the good ol' colonial days (not like Angelina's colonialism, silly!). Depicted here is the identical (or one darn similar to it!) intersection that fooled us.

Shorty and I missed the turn. Can you blame us? Where is Nottingham Way? we wondered. Is it before or after the stalled out buggy? How curious. Keeping in step with prescribed gender roles, we immediately pulled into a gas station and asked for directions. Aha! So Nottingham Way was closer than we thought, and we found the street sign. It was small (though the street was part of a four-five road intersection), and seemingly hidden by overgrown shrubs, too-tall grass, and/or a thick pole. Shorty and I made it to the funeral home, the cemetery, and the buffet safe and sound--a good thing since her Oat/Cardboard-flavored crackers were hardly holding over us (read: me).

Story #2: WhiteVan Drives Me Cra-ZaY.
On the way home, Shorty and another nice lady, Curly, joined my journey home. What a bunch! Curly's from Westfield which is only a hop, skip, and Coach bag away from my town, Screw-nion.

I'm not much familiar with Beautiful Girl's (BG) part of New Jersey, so I wasn't quite sure how to get back to Route 1. Moe, Happy's fiancee, offered to draft a route provided by his GPS, but that darn contraption told me to get on the Turnpike! Every self-respecting Jersey-jerk opts for non-toll roads over toll roads, so I was looking for another way, and then a beacon of light drove my way--in the form of a mini van, the Chrysler Voyager White Van, to be precise.

(BG) introduced/directed me toward the Ladies of the White Van (LOTWV, though I won't use this acronym, I thought you should witness my appreciation for acronyms). They knew the way, so we all said goodbye to Moe and Happy and pulled out behind WhiteVan.

Have you ever followed someone in a car? Don't do it. Find a map, ask a gas attendant (we have them in our state) and/or a homeless person, use your ol' Girl Scouts keychain-compass, move toward the North star-whatever you do, avoid following another car. I have to say, I hate when people follow me some place--it's like, why don't you get directions so I can speed on the way there? I become very self-conscious (theme of the century), and end up looking in my rearview mirror more than at the road ahead of me. So you're probably never going to drive with me now, right?

Getting back to the Legendary White Van. OK. We pulled out of the parking lot--no turning signal! Thanks WhiteVan--cutting off hostile-ready drivers is my favorite pastime! Then! WhiteVan sped ahead, sticking to the right lane, which made me think we were going to turn soon. Good thing I'm psychic because we did turn soon, and WhiteVan neglected the blinker yet again! We hit the highway and WhiteVan was all over the place! Now, WhiteVan had its right blinker on--but it never turned right! Once WhiteVan veered right onto a ramp, its left directional suddenly appeared--and wouldn't stop flashing! Didn't they hear the incessant clicking? Were they listening to Bon Jovi with the bass way up? Livin' on a prayer we were! Shorty, Curly, and I had many questions for WhiteVan but ultimatedly enjoyed chronicling WhiteVan's every move. Too bad I wasn't recording my car conversations for a change. I think you'd like this one.

Once I figured out where we was, I took off past WhiteVan whose occupants stretched a happy wave our way, and left LOTWV* in da dust. It was grand. And hilarious. You should have been there.

Some day, maybe you, too, will find a mysterious, slippery WhiteVan of your very own. Until then, I can only hope this story has inspired you to venture out into the great wide wilderness of poorly marked roads, and put up bigger, more legible and well-placed street signs.

God speed, my friends.

*So what, I used the acronym again. Big deal. Hello? It's way cooler sounding than LOTR, and just ... cooler. Rock on WhiteVan!

Ratology: Didn't take that in college.

2006-06-05T09:19:00.000-04:00

There has been a mouse in my house.

A mouse so great it has eaten through yards of plastic tubing within our formerly operating GE dishwasher. This mouse must not be some ordinary mouse, but a gigantic, Disney World Mickey Mouse-sized rodent. One that is less friendly, but has opposable thumbs and wears white gloves (we hope). His droppings litter the floor behind our stove, something Mickey might try were he animated by a sick-minded bastard.

That's our Mickey petting Rudy. Again, at least he's wearing gloves.

Yes. Well, you may have heard of a "HAVAHEART" rodent trap. This is my preferred method. Initially, we procured a mouse one, but apparently this critter's fat ass shimmied out of it before getting trapped inside. My father went out and bought a HAVAHEART for squirrels and small raccoons. Thank goodness our small dog is overweight! He might get himself trapped in there.

This didn't work. We tried poison pots, as I like to call them, but my stepmother ended up calling an exterminator.

This is him except he was wearing his less fancy hat and was carrying a bucket instead of a microphone. Although he may have had a microphone. Let's call him Friendly.

Friendly came at a moment in time when I was the only person in the house available to open the door. How convenient! My father was in the shower. It was all superb timing.

When I opened the door for Friendly, he barged in with his non-English-speaking friend, "Smiley," and demanded where the rodent was potentially located. Surprised by his stern demeanor, I gestured toward the kitchen and told him we thought the critter was a mouse.

Boastful master of ratology that he was, Friendly interrogated, "How do you know it's a mouse?" To which I replied, "Well, I don't. The other people who usually live here seem to think it's a mouse. I haven't seen it."

Okay, Friendly got a little exasperated. Sensing my answers weren't enough for this kind gentleman, I told him that we put poison trays behind the oven, dishwasher, and under the sink.

"I see you have a cat here. And a dog. Don't you know that poison could kill them? I'm really not sure why you would do something like that," he snapped in a most unattractive condescending tone.

I was silenced. He then asked if there were any droppings. "Yes, there were droppings. They were behind the stove. They were cleaned up on Wednesday."

"WHY WOULD YOU CLEAN THEM UP?" Friendly asked. "HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT KIND OF RODENT IT IS?"

Actually, I almost started crying at this point as I did not understand what I was doing there (do I really live there?) and why this man was yelling at me. I did not have a degree in ratology as he did.

About the rat droppings, I tried to explain, "Sir, at the time the droppings were removed, we had not hired you. You were called the next day, on Thursday. You were hired by someone in the household who did not think the poison pots were enough. She was not involved with the cleaning of rat droppings."

Friendly's stare bore into my soul and he exclaimed, "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!??!?!?!?!"

During this train wreck of a conversation Friendly and I were havin', Smiley was staring into space. Charming.

To be honest, I was terrified of Friendly. I went into the bedroom and told my father that the exterminator was here and that he was an asshole, so he hurried up and went to talk to him.

As soon as Friendly sees daddi-o, he says, "Hi, sir, how are you today?" And I almost vomited. Friendly addressed my father with a completely different tone of voice, yet he was still condescending.

At least my father was pissed off at the guy for talking to me that way. My stepmother eventually told him off, but I think that was more about the dog potentially eating the rat poison Friendly and Smiley distributed throughout the house.

Looking back, I guess I should have handled the situation differently from the get-go (even though I was more than accommodating). Maybe I should have said, "Oh sir, oh Mr. Exterminator, would you like me to fix you something to eat? Or how about a blow job while my father's in the shower?"

Maybe that would have changed his tune?

Is that the feminist etiquette of the new millennium?

Nobody likes the F-word. So F-that.

2006-06-02T08:57:00.000-04:00

Words are powerful.
Ooh, Aah, what remarkable wisdom! How profound!

Okay, enough. That's not even accurate. Words are powerful, but their representations are what carry real weight. For example, people seem to think "feminism/t" exclusively means "radical, nose-ring wearing, lesbian, political, man-hating GRRRRRL" when in actuality, that isn't how Webster or the toilet paper of the Ivy League, Oxford, defines it. See, I don't want to get into what I really think feminism means, because, presently, that isn't what's at stake. Stay with me here.

We're talking about representation, remember?

Without getting into too much of a history of feminisms, I'd like to point out that there are many forms of this "u(e)ber-activism." Radical feminism, for one, emerged in the midst of the women's lib movement of the 1970s, but so did lesbian feminism.

That's for damn sure.

Liberal feminism is what pro-choice folks abide by, yet the only thing anyone can ever ask about any form of feminism is: So, they were the bra-burners, right? No. No, they weren't. Anyone who thinks feminists go around burning lingerie at Victoria's Secret, or once took off their bras and started bonfires on suburban streets in protest of helping their kids with math homework, well, I'm going to come over and set fire to your underwear draw(er).

Now, that I've made myself clear. This word--feminism--is scary and potentially alienating.

Last night, I had a nice discussion with one of my dear friends about getting a new license in New Jersey. I recalled the difficulty my grandmother, who has had a New Jersey driver's license since 1850, faced in renewing her license. New Jersey, ever savvy in anti-terrorist "safety" precautions, has implemented a six-point check, system, violation of privacy--whatever you want to call it--en route obtaining a new, digital, high-tech license.

Prior to 2003 (when this system was implemented), getting a license was damn easy! Anyone with a fake SSCard and birth certificate could walk away with one (or two, on a good day)! That's how I did it, anyway. But the immigrants and terrorists have been heading straight for the Garden State, and so we have to protect NJ residents. Even if it means people like my grandmother, who is from New Jersey, in her mid-70s, and loses most important documents she's ever had, find themselves unable to RETAIN their licenses. Minor detail.

Last week, I think I mentioned that I helped my grandmother with this "project." Her license had expired in late April, but she was unable to track down a birth certificate, and so had to acquire a number of other documents in order to get her birth certificate alone. A mess, you don't want to hear about it. When she had finally collected all the documents necessary to validate her identification, the bigwig (indeed, big) at the NJDMV HQ in Springfield told her she needed her marriage license in order to get her driver's license. Why, some might protest, would she need her marriage license? On the NJDMV ever-informative leaflet, it says, "REQUIREMENTS: At least one Primary Document; At Least One Secondary Document; Social Security Number (not even the card?); Proof of Address." But apparently those are the requirements for men (and children, and immigrants, probably) to get their licenses.

In a red-outlined box titled "IMPORTANT INFORMATION," a careful PMS-ing reader learns that if she has been married, she must prove she is who she is. This is where the conversation with my friend picked up. I casually remarked that this was sexist, however subtle, and she told me she thought it was just to ensure everyone is who they say they is. I mean, are.

But wouldn't your credit card have your married last name on it? Wouldn't your OLD LICENSE have your married last name on it? If it was OKAY for you to drive as a married person before your current license expired, WHY is it a problem now?

Let's say I was born in Delaware. Happily, I married in Delaware. My husband and I decided to not be feminists, so I took his last name. We decided New Jersey has more crime, so it'd be a nice place to live, and moved to Union, NJ. Okay. My husband gets his NJ license, no problem! Shows them a few forms of ID, he's set. I go to get my license, thinking I should have as little problem as good hubby, but I find that I need my marriage license. Why would I need my marriage license? New Jersey has only known me by my married last name; whyever would I need to prove this change in name--that happened in Delaware?

I presented this scenario to my friend, but she wasn't convinced. She said she didn't have time to think about these things, these political matters. I was blown away.

Political? What?!

I sat there wondering, Why should the government keep tabs on women's marital status? And she sat there wondering, Why should I care? It is how it is. (We all know I am somewhat of a mind-reader.)

Before she got out of the car, I told her that other people were working on being political so she didn't have to, but that standing in solidarity with a cause, even a bit, can help. On my way home, I realized I wasn't clear enough and I didn't really address what I should have:

You're never running away from "feminism" or "politics;" it's only awareness you're refusing to find and foster.

Women are afraid of feminism. (Duh?) I don't see myself as necessarily political or feminist. As I told someone special last night, "I am too fair-minded to be a feminist." But being AWARE of sexist policies is something entirely different.

When I told my friend I thought this marriage license policy was sexist, she asked, "Well shouldn't you be upset with the sexist society?" Correct, grasshopper. This policy I protest so proudly is symptomatic of the sexist society we live in; so, my question is: Does that mean we should accept it? Even if it's just symptomatic?

To me, treatment of symptoms, of representations of words, of sexist/racist/ageist/classist policies is where we must begin, even in our small ways. When we're aware of the symptoms of sexism et. al, we view our world differently and make decisions according to what's really in our best interest (as women, as non-white, middle-class males).

This leaves me with the question (my special friend and I mulled over): Is it my responsibility, as an aware (I hope) person, to educate or raise awareness in my peers?

I say yes, but then, who am I to say I am aware?

Ooh, Aah, wisdom? Profound?

Pregnant Women Worry Me+Updates

2006-05-29T09:29:00.000-04:00

First, I will begin by updating you on a few matters:
1. Today is Memorial Day. Happy Memorial Day. We should exchange presents on Memorial Day. Like small flags and medals of superlative honor or something. Is that dismissive?
2. I find Fleet Week to be an incredible occurrence. At once, women from all boroughs flock to the piers and pick up a few men in white. It's as if there's a city-wide vibration that channels all XXs(/some gentlemen too?) as the ship docks , and out from the woodwork they roam toward the water like zombies--arms extended, eyes rolled back in head, sans regard to pedestrian traffic laws. It's pretty amazing, and, I venture to guess, a dream come true for tired match.com users. Talk about easy.
3. I heart NJDMV.
...

4. Did you know that a cat this big is able to effectively attack and intimidate a dog like Rudy?

Enough about unimportant matters, pressing forward.

WARNING What you're about to read is nothing new. I am not professing to have unlocked the secretive mythology of American pop culture. I am merely pointing out my concerns in regard to pregnant women, celebrity and civilian.

I will inform you up front that I shall not dignify this post with pictures of the familiars: Angelina Jolie, Tori Spelling, Sandra Bullock, Gwen Stefani, my goodness the list goes on and on and on. In fact, I'm not going to post any pictures, which means you might lose interest, but, really, I'd rather look more like Atlantic Monthly than Us Weekly right about now.

*Newsflash* it's trendy to be pregnant! So, get goin! I once read this piece by this really articulate HIV+ man who was talking about unprotected sex and how gay men are always vilified for practicing "unsafe sex." He says something on the order of, "Well, why doesn't anyone say anything to pregnant women about that?" Oh, but, I get it. When a woman is pregnant, she gives life, therefore her actions (when they aren't abortion actions) fall in line with whatever secular beliefs America boasts. Oh, but wait! Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie aren't married, and even if they were, the expiration date for celebrity marriages is sooner than that of the quart of milk you've got in the fridge. Point: We (uh, American society and culture) usually condone pregnancy when the couple is able to support the child and care for it. Oh, but wait! White people, celebrities, other people of social and racial privilege can just slide right past that judgment. They have a kind of "Get out of Judgment Free" card that was given to them at birth (and me too, what the hell? I'm not separating myself from this here).

So here we are with a trend that goes against what our very very secular beliefs suggest. Okay, so, maybe 10 years ago celebrity culture was about having sex with everyone on the red carpet. Okay, so maybe it's still that way today but now we've got this seemingly narrow caveat that involves children. Hmm, I'd like to think that maybe celebrity culture embraces parenting, but it doesn't; it's just represented that way. Anyway, these celebrities, our American idols, pretty much govern what's hip and what isn't. The effects are especially noticeable in places like New York City. SO it seems that the 1970s women's liberation movement did, like, nothing in comparison to what all these saucy celebrities of familiar idolatry are doing for female empowerment. If Angelina can go and move to Africa and have two kids who were stolen, I mean, aren't white, and have a kid with some guy who is suddenly hideous, I CAN TOO!!!!!!

You might not be hearing from me for a while. I might be out looking for a few Asian children to adopt (GO MEG RYAN!!!!!) and getting pregnant. By anyone who is able. Like a sailor.

Cool!

Have a nice holiday!

real desperate housewives probably just take prozac and call it a day

2006-05-22T08:11:00.000-04:00

usually, i'm fortunate enough to be cut off from reality. i mean, television. the only television show i ever found myself watching in high school was seinfeld, and now i have the dvds. basically, good marketing, technology (the ol' standard), and special features have just taken all the meaning out of tv.

last night, however, i decided i should watch desperate housewives.
after all, this is a show that most white middle-class american women are hooked on. why wouldn't they be? they're watching themselves. perhaps i should include myself in the "they" i throw around, but, um, i doubt housewivery, in its sweet suburbia grandeur, is what i'm in for. i'd first request a pirate's life for me (and that says a lot - you know, i can get very sea sick).

back to dh: i meant to say that the tense, non-sensical plot line of the first season acted as a large flame to draw in moths, to keep them engaged until the fire went out. i'm thinking dh got hit with a big bucket of water about 20 episodes ago, but viewers are holding out for bree to just get her act together again. apparently, season two has many "plot twists," which is a convenient way of saying "these are behaviors and activities no woman or man would ever commit, but we're up against reruns of who's the boss? and i think the danza man and his italian-american charm is winning 'em over again. we must do something."

actually, dh is up against the sopranos, which means the whole tri-state area is probably more interested in investigating their hard-core heritage on hdtv rather than committing an hour to some hysteria- or pmdd-afflicted lady drama. after all, "wisteria" (lane) and "hysteria" rhyme, if you talk funny.

yes, i am fond of representation in media. it is quite fascinating. while i was spending my sunday evenings staring at the wall this past television-calendar year, wisteria lane welcomed a new family. of course, they were black. it's clear that wisteria lane "needed a little color" perhaps in order to "even things out." that's ridiculous. (of course this is laden with sarcasm. i hope you see this.) alfre woodard - a tremendous actress - is the mother of two college-age (?) boys, one of which has a kind of handicap, or something. someone else is locked in the basement. this is what i gleaned from commercials, okay? give me a break! the point is everyone in the neighborhood thinks alfre woodard's household is ... strange, or different. they are "mysterious" which is code for "not like everyone/anyone else who lives on this block."

i'm not sure why they even cast a black family. to sincerely believe this innovation, viewers must be under the guise that non-white people are allowed to LIVE and not just mow lawns or clean gabrielle's house/fuck her husband. but this is not true. everyone else is white. what's more amazing is how the black family becomes self-sufficient/alienated (however you'd like to view it) from the rest of the community. incredible. go abc! gotta love it.

i bring this up because last night matthew (one of alfre's sons) was getting into a bit of trouble. there's nothing to spoil, by the way. as usual, the plot crawled on at the pace of 10 stupid things said by susan/5 angry faces from lynette/a handful of "i'm not crazy" lines from bree/2-3 times carlos had sex with the maid. you missed nothing!

back to matthew.
a plot line clearly conceived under the influence comes into play where matthew killed some asian chick he was dating a long time ago. that was nice representation there too. she was irritating, clingy, and then she was trying to blackmail him. aren't we all. so he killed her, which is not unusual for characters on this show. i like how men kill women on dh. and i especially love how they're showing black men as violent, with big sticks rather than short pistols. it's this completely unrealistic fantasy! golly gee i love tv! anyway, matthew was leaving with bree's daughter (who's probably bisexual - i made that up), and bree discovers that matthew killed the asian girl like 10 years ago when it happened, which seems like a really probable scenario. somehow matthew finds a gun (it probably belongs to one of his white neighbors) and is pointing it at bree (who must be wholesome, she loves soy!).

she says something like, "You're a killer. I want to get my daughter to see who you really are" - sorry for the bad quoting skills. i don't even want to get into the potential racism of that statement/context. in fact, i'm certain i've lost most of you by now anyway.

so! then the black man ends up not killing her, but gets killed by a sniper of sort outside. i still have no fucking clue who shot him. but i'm sure wisteria lane is glad to have alienated, ostracized, and ultimately forced out the only people of color on the block. they can get so rowdy! so dangerous! (sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm.)

basically, what i've been trying to say this whole time is this:

everyone run out and get desperate housewives on dvd today!

stop, listen, what's that sound ... wheezing, typically.

2006-05-21T10:22:00.000-04:00

i made this blog to type on it and i've neglected reporting anything at all. maybe i'll give you a brief synopsis of what i've been doing the past few days. it's more than hilarious, so brace yourself. that means "hold onto the desk before you erupt." i'm glad i've made myself clear; we shall proceed.

first, i graduated.

yes, you're right, it is exciting.

second, i moved out of my dorm.

no picture here because you'd cry at the very sight of this process.

third, i'm going to stop numbering what i'm doing. it isn't making this easier for you to read, nor for me to right. i mean write.

we get to new jersey, and there's the rub. (not too much, please, i'm writing about very serious matters here. i must maintain my concentration.) just because new jersey signifies horribly untrue falsities to many people does not mean it's all bad. when you read my first sentence of this not-a-paragraph, you probably sighed, "of course, new jersey!" or with less exclamation perhaps; you may have been sad or dismayed at the time, i can only account for a few reactional possibilities. let's get this straight, new jersey is NOT and never will be the arm pit of america. i think we bestowed that honor unto staten island. anyway, i'd like to know who's so lucky to be the head or shoulders of america. probably connecticut, on both counts.

pressing forward.

i'm confusing (with pronouns) because i don't want to be anonymous but others may want to be. it's highly sought after, that anonymous business.

my companion's flight was supposed to be around 5:40 pm from laguardia airport. that is in QUEENS, for the less edumacated. i thought it was in brooklyn last time around, which makes it pretty amazing that i ever made it to the actual airport this time. oh, but it was an amazing race. much more than that television (now defunct? that's a nice phrase!) program. much much more.

let me illustrate the trip with some fine (and pilfered) fotos. and i hope you're holding onto the table.

we drove on a thickly trafficked turnpike, but it was raining already. that picture is misleading. i should have been photographing this momentous journey as it happened. we feared hydroplaning and sitting slick-feathered geese to be culprits of accidents ahead. but there wasn't just a storm, there was a twister!

whoa! that's in newark bay, which we had passed by the time we made it to that toll as above depicted. maybe we should have been closer to the twister: would have saved time getting to the airport, i bet.

ah the wonderful airport. around 2.5 hours later, we were looking to follow a map like this one. i parked in lot 5 for 32 minutes (far right) and walked with companion to the delta terminal which is just north of lot 4, if you can see that clearly on the map. this is crucial, my friend. once we entered "delta terminal," we learned that my companion's first flight out of new york to minneapolis (her layover) would be delayed by two hours -- what insanity! then! the nice northwest lady informed us (or just her, i wasn't going anywhere but nj from there) that my companion's connecting flight would most probably LEAVE WITHOUT HER! the audacity! that connecting flight was the last one she could take that night to her final destination. so she booked a flight for the next morning. this meant we drove back to nj together in the tornado (refer to picture above) and on the turnpike (see above, again) so that we could return to parking lot 5 and delta terminal in the morning. bravo.

the story does not end here!

on the way home, there was traffic, yeah, and i'm sure this is very exciting. 300000 words later i'm sitting in new jersey recapping this for the 2 people who know about this blog. excellent!

i am digressing. pardon me.

at last, we were exiting the turnpike. i don't know if you've ever personally been, but once you enter the turnpike, you need to take a ticket that indicates the toll you'll have to pay once you exit the turnpike. i know, what a treat!

here is the ticket.

how cute. you'd think i'd want to hold onto it forever. i did. but then the wind came, probably from the twister that was heading to lot 5 (one should hope).

as i approached the toll booth/vortex to hand over my $1 and ticket, i stretched out my arm and in an instant the ticket was gone. i would have preferred the dollar to have flown. i was under the impression that you had to pay the highest toll on the ticket in the event that you lost your ticket or decided to keep it as a souvenir (which is what the person who took that picture of the ticket did). apparently, this njturnpike toll attendant thought $4.95 was enough. maybe this had never happened to her before either. i'm glad it was a mutual first time experience, then. wonderful.

my companion and i made it home safely, and then went back out to ... queens? to the airport.

today i was supposed to go to another graduation for my dear dear friend, but i just couldn't do it.

sorry bird, i love you. and you're not done with school anyway, so i guess i'll go to your real, special graduation when that happens.

i'm going back to bed.

first time out.

2006-05-16T00:44:00.000-04:00

this is scary.

here, i want to show you something.

that's me. i'm not always confused ... looking.

won't you be my virtual neighbor?

you're answer to that is probably a resounding no, which means you've moved on to the next blog featuring funny faces. surf all you like.

i'll be here.

waiting.