Grateful as I am to be employed during our current economic crisis, I sometimes can’t escape how very, very much I miss working in the city. I miss my daily walk to the subway, miss the mindless ease of commuting underground, miss the sensation of New York as a living, breathing, bustling ultra-scene from which I’m separated by naught but a wall.
I miss it particularly now, when temperatures are climbing and the city has started coming alive again for summertime. Long Island has none of that. It is a comparatively dull place, a land of strip malls and medical office complexes surrounded by endless asphalt parking lots. When I worked in Manhattan, I would always silently mourn my various workspaces’ lack of a window to the outside world; now, I have one, but the landscape beyond it is so blah-inducing that I never look out. It’s depressing out there.
Being one to at least try to make the best of a less-than-pleasant situation, I’ve tried to explore the surrounding area. I tried walking at first, but crossing a four-lane divided highway in order to do laps around a parking lot in New Hyde Park is possibly the only pedestrian experience more horrible than attempting to walk through Times Square on a Friday at 5:00pm. (And I say this as someone who once had her ass grabbed by a total stranger, in broad daylight, on the corner of 42nd and Broadway. We’re not talking an idle pat-pat either; the gentleman in question somehow managed to grab my whole entire ass. Like, as though it were a single, palm-sized entity. The entire thing still makes me shake my head in bafflement; he must have had simply enormous hands.)
So lately, I’ve tried to get used to the idea of going out at lunchtime, getting in a car, and driving someplace. SO. FREAKING. CRAZY.
Those of you who live anywhere but New York, Boston, London, and possibly San Francisco are probably shaking your heads in disbelief right now. I don’t blame you, but good lord, you cannot fathom how weird it is to drive a car multiple times per day after six years of commuting by subway. I used to love walking aimlessly around the city during my lunch breaks, wandering in and out of stores, eventually slipping into a little restaurant for a fabulously solitary bite to eat. Getting behind the wheel at noon feels like… cheating.
But, as the clock struck one and I plodded miserably down to the parking garage, I was determined. Just because I’m on Long Island doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy idle shopping and some good food at lunchtime, I thought. I’ll just have to find the closest thing to a New York sidewalk, someplace with a lot of shops and restaurants all in a row. Yes, that’s what I’ll do! It will be awesome!!!
And that, in case anyone is wondering, is how I ended up at the mall.
Malls are undeniably scary places, but on Long Island, in the middle of a weekday, they are EXTRA STRENGTH scary. The stench of Cinnabon, the tween-pop cover of Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” playing from unseen speakers overhead, the washed-out blonde ladies of leisure who are laden down with shopping bags and who wander from store to store like glassy-eyed auditionees for The Real Housewives of New York: Zombie Edition… it’s enough to give even the most stalwart shopper the heebie jeebies. I was desperately studying the mall directory and my brain was loudly informing me that This is nothing like a New York City sidewalk, you irredeemable dumbass, when I suddenly felt warm breath on the back of my neck.
I whirled around and found myself face-to-face with a short, ruddy-looking man with curly reddish hair.
“Ex-chuuuuuuuuse me,” he said with a dribblingly French accent. I looked at his cheap-but-snappy suit, his earnest expression, and the item he was holding in his hand, and realized that he had come from a nearby stand – one of those pagoda-like installations that dot the central walkways in malls and sell things like calendars, tacky glass miniatures, clip-on hair extensions, or -- in this case -- personal beauty products so mind-blowingly terrible that they cannot even make the cut for inclusion on QVC.
Oh, hell no, my brain said.
I tried to step around him.
“Sorry,” I said, “I’m in a terrible hurry.”
French stepped in time with me, cutting off my escape.
“A moment of your time, miss!” he said.
“No,” I said, stepping again. He moved with me. “Look—“ I began, desperately, then stopped when he extended his finger toward my face.
This might be a good time to start screaming, said my brain.
I stared dumbly at the finger.
“Just one moment,” he said again, and then – without a word of explanation – his pointer moved another inch forward and poked the skin under my right eye.
“What the—“
“You see, you have ze AGE SPOTS!” he crowed.
“What?!” I said.
WHAT? KILL HIM, my brain said.
“I have to go,” I said quickly.
“No!” French shouted, and grabbed my wrist, babbling a mile a minute and beginning to uncap the tube of whatever-the-hell-it-was that he held in his hand. I tried unsuccessfully to pull away as he tightened his grip and muttered, “One moment, one moment, one moment.”
“Not one moment!” I said, and then, before I could stop him, he squirted me.
“There!” he crowed.
I looked at my wrist, which was now covered in what looked like sonogram gel.
“Please,” I said, “Just wipe this off of me so I can leave.”
“NO,” said French, “I SHOW YOU THIS PRODUCT.”
He grabbed my arm with both hands and began furiously rubbing the gel into my skin. I looked down at his working hands and noticed that he had some kind of yellow fungus growing under his index finger.
See? said my brain. First you fail to kill this man, and now you’re going to have to spend hundreds of dollars on Gold Bond crème just to stop shitaki mushrooms from growing on your forearms. Are you happy? ARE YOU?
“You will see,” he kept saying. “You will see.”
“Listen, pal, I don’t want to see. I just want to--”
“Look, it exfoliates! You see how it exfoliates?!”
I looked at my wrist, where his vigorous rubbing had caused a few infinitesimal specks of skin to come loose.
“Yes, but I don’t ca—“
“You will see! Come look in ze mirror,” he said. “Come look in ze mirror at your age spots.”
Say age spot again, you frog bastard, and see what happens to you, said my brain.
“I don’t have age spots,” I said.
“Yes you do.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do!”
“No I—you know what, I don’t care if I have goddamn age spots, I want you to let go of my hand! I am not buying anything from you, particularly not after this!”
I was getting loud. One of the Mall Zombies gazed impassively at me as she floated past, Starbucks cup in hand.
French had stopped rubbing my wrist.
”What did you say?” he said.
“I said I’m not buying anything from you,” I hissed.
French stared at me, his lower lip jutting out like a hurt little boy. “Why?”
I stared back.
“Why?” he said again.
“What do you mean, why? Are you… have you been here for the past three minutes?”
French dropped his death grip on my wrist, stuck a hand into his pocket, and yanked out a wad of cotton. He angrily began wiping off my arm.
“Zees is an excellent product,” he said, quietly. “I do not understand.”
I felt momentarily bad for him.
“Look,” I said, “I just don’t buy this sort of thing.”
He made a huffing sound.
“Sorry,” I said. I pulled back my arm, now free of sonogram gel but still smelling decidedly peculiar. “Sorry.”
As I turned to go, he glared at me.
"You will be sorry with your big age spots," he said.
"That's fine," I said. "My brain wants me to kill you."
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
quick hit: Ernesto Neto at the Armory on Park
On Saturday, Brad and I visited the UES Armory on Park to see Ernesto Neto's installation in the gargantuan drill hall.
The Armory is a rare relic in New York, and the drill hall -- formerly a practice hall for New York's Seventh Regiment of the National Guard -- is one of the largest and most overwhelming indoor spaces in Manhattan. I was a member of the publicity machine for its reopening back in 2006, when I was still flacking for the arts; having seen the interiors in rotting disrepair only three years ago, I can't help but get a huge thrill out of seeing this space repurposed as a center for new works. (The building kicked off its new gig as an alternative arts center with a quite-innovative performance by motorcycle-riding artist Aaron Young back in 2007, and has been a raging success ever since.)
Ernesto Neto's installation is quite a coup, inviting intimacy despite its massive scale. From the entrance, it looks like a... well, a giant ethereal caterpillar.
The piece is constructed from hundreds yards of silky material, stretched over a skeleton to create a series of interconnected tunnels beneath. Visitors walk right through the belly of the beast (or, in the case of the approximately 3 million children who were there that afternoon, sprint through it at warp speed while screaming at peak volume).
A surprise: in addition to the tactile aspects of the installation -- just before visiting I read an interview with Neto in which he expressed hope that people would touch the sculpture -- it also smelled. These "stalactites", hanging from the ceiling of both the drill hall and the sculpture's interior, were filled with cloves. Brushing up against them released the scent into the air. Innovative, but a tad unnerving.
Also unnerving: Trying to pretend that the so-called stalactites didn't look awfully... well... scrotal.
Ernesto Neto at the Armory on Park is up through June 14th. If you're in New York, go visit!
The Armory is a rare relic in New York, and the drill hall -- formerly a practice hall for New York's Seventh Regiment of the National Guard -- is one of the largest and most overwhelming indoor spaces in Manhattan. I was a member of the publicity machine for its reopening back in 2006, when I was still flacking for the arts; having seen the interiors in rotting disrepair only three years ago, I can't help but get a huge thrill out of seeing this space repurposed as a center for new works. (The building kicked off its new gig as an alternative arts center with a quite-innovative performance by motorcycle-riding artist Aaron Young back in 2007, and has been a raging success ever since.)
Ernesto Neto's installation is quite a coup, inviting intimacy despite its massive scale. From the entrance, it looks like a... well, a giant ethereal caterpillar.
The piece is constructed from hundreds yards of silky material, stretched over a skeleton to create a series of interconnected tunnels beneath. Visitors walk right through the belly of the beast (or, in the case of the approximately 3 million children who were there that afternoon, sprint through it at warp speed while screaming at peak volume).
A surprise: in addition to the tactile aspects of the installation -- just before visiting I read an interview with Neto in which he expressed hope that people would touch the sculpture -- it also smelled. These "stalactites", hanging from the ceiling of both the drill hall and the sculpture's interior, were filled with cloves. Brushing up against them released the scent into the air. Innovative, but a tad unnerving.
Also unnerving: Trying to pretend that the so-called stalactites didn't look awfully... well... scrotal.
Ernesto Neto at the Armory on Park is up through June 14th. If you're in New York, go visit!
The small regrets of selling out
This weekend, I got a long-overdue call from a friend on the west coast. I was relieved to hear from him by phone – between busy schedules and the three-hour time difference, our communication over the past few months has been largely limited to g-chat, where I was beginning to find our exchanges strangely infuriating. He would pop up onscreen with a non-sequitur – “Argh…stayed up all night to finish a film!” – then disappear after five minutes of non-versation, leaving me to wonder how and when one gets reduced to cocktail-party banalities on the internet after knowing somebody for more than fifteen years.
Like many long relationships, ours is complicated. We dated as teenagers, broke up shortly after high school, and spent several years without contact before taking a stab at friendship as adults. It is, of course, more involved than that. But the basic facts are there.
Since then, our paths have been wildly divergent. After ten years, we are a pair of diametrically-opposed clichés: Me, married-and-careered on the east coast; him, finishing undergrad after years of soul-searching, political activism, partying, and lady-killing on the west. Lately, separated by 3,000 miles of flyover country and too many years of non-parallel experience, it’s become harder and harder for us to relate to each other. He thinks I am a sellout. I think he needs to grow up. He still believes that “Republican” is synonymous with “evil”; I have given up on black-and-white idealism in favor of spouting idiotic platitudes like, “It takes all sorts!”
Maybe I have sold out.
My marriage to someone of opposite ideology – a southern, self-identified Christian who voted for Bush twice – has not helped the growing gap between us. He snarks on my new last name, makes snide-sounding references to my “hubby”, and seems to view Brad like an untrustworthy visitor from another planet. I am irritated, and then irritated at myself for being irritated. We are almost thirty.
As we talk, the first time I’ve heard his voice in months, the conversation is light. I absentmindedly channel-surf and tell him about my first international clip. He tells me that he has started making student films. He likes it. I have no doubt he’s talented, as he always has been, at all things creative.
“So, where’s your hubby?” he asks, finally.
“We don’t use that word around here,” I say. “And he’s gone out to get cigarettes.”
”I quit smoking,” he says.
“They’ve gotten so expensive here," I say, and change the channel again. "With the tax increases, they're more than ten dollars a pack. It’s making it impossible for us to save any money.”
His reply is a scoff: “I have zero sympathy for that.” He says it again, with extra emphasis. “Zero.”
It’s a minor rudeness, a throwaway, but I'm hurt. And, as seems to happen so often these days, things devolve.
“That was a really fucking obnoxious thing to say.”
“What? It’s a major health cost.”
“That’s not the point.”
Eventually, I feel sick and fidgety with irritation – at his short-sighted insistence on politicizing the personal, at the missed opportunity for real talk, at my inability to ignore small slights – and cut the conversation short. When I hang up the phone, Brad looks at me.
“What was that?”
I say my friend’s name. He nods. This has happened before.
There will come a time, I hope, when it won’t happen anymore. We are like a pair of people walking on opposite shores, so distant in daily experience that we can no longer see each other... but though I have no real reason to do so, I imagine a different future. One in which we watch the water growing calm and the space between us becoming slowly, slightly narrowed, as the chasm starts to close. I am not so naïve as to think that we’ll ever be on the same side again, but one day, I hope, I will look across and be able to make out his silhouette in the distance.
If I'm lucky, it won't be long now.
Like many long relationships, ours is complicated. We dated as teenagers, broke up shortly after high school, and spent several years without contact before taking a stab at friendship as adults. It is, of course, more involved than that. But the basic facts are there.
Since then, our paths have been wildly divergent. After ten years, we are a pair of diametrically-opposed clichés: Me, married-and-careered on the east coast; him, finishing undergrad after years of soul-searching, political activism, partying, and lady-killing on the west. Lately, separated by 3,000 miles of flyover country and too many years of non-parallel experience, it’s become harder and harder for us to relate to each other. He thinks I am a sellout. I think he needs to grow up. He still believes that “Republican” is synonymous with “evil”; I have given up on black-and-white idealism in favor of spouting idiotic platitudes like, “It takes all sorts!”
Maybe I have sold out.
My marriage to someone of opposite ideology – a southern, self-identified Christian who voted for Bush twice – has not helped the growing gap between us. He snarks on my new last name, makes snide-sounding references to my “hubby”, and seems to view Brad like an untrustworthy visitor from another planet. I am irritated, and then irritated at myself for being irritated. We are almost thirty.
As we talk, the first time I’ve heard his voice in months, the conversation is light. I absentmindedly channel-surf and tell him about my first international clip. He tells me that he has started making student films. He likes it. I have no doubt he’s talented, as he always has been, at all things creative.
“So, where’s your hubby?” he asks, finally.
“We don’t use that word around here,” I say. “And he’s gone out to get cigarettes.”
”I quit smoking,” he says.
“They’ve gotten so expensive here," I say, and change the channel again. "With the tax increases, they're more than ten dollars a pack. It’s making it impossible for us to save any money.”
His reply is a scoff: “I have zero sympathy for that.” He says it again, with extra emphasis. “Zero.”
It’s a minor rudeness, a throwaway, but I'm hurt. And, as seems to happen so often these days, things devolve.
“That was a really fucking obnoxious thing to say.”
“What? It’s a major health cost.”
“That’s not the point.”
Eventually, I feel sick and fidgety with irritation – at his short-sighted insistence on politicizing the personal, at the missed opportunity for real talk, at my inability to ignore small slights – and cut the conversation short. When I hang up the phone, Brad looks at me.
“What was that?”
I say my friend’s name. He nods. This has happened before.
There will come a time, I hope, when it won’t happen anymore. We are like a pair of people walking on opposite shores, so distant in daily experience that we can no longer see each other... but though I have no real reason to do so, I imagine a different future. One in which we watch the water growing calm and the space between us becoming slowly, slightly narrowed, as the chasm starts to close. I am not so naïve as to think that we’ll ever be on the same side again, but one day, I hope, I will look across and be able to make out his silhouette in the distance.
If I'm lucky, it won't be long now.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Blogs? Blogs!
A quick update: I have officially created a stand-alone page devoted to excellent blogs from all corners of the internet! (Only one month after I claimed that such a project was happening imminently!) Please visit the page here, or click the corresponding sidebar link to view the complete list. If you're not linked and think you should be, you are not that special and should quit being such an entitled little piss-pot please shoot me an email and I will remedy the situation post-haste.
Also: Today, I'd like to devote this post to highlighting four blogs which are of exceptional brilliance -- blogs which you should visit immediately, as opposed to, say, later this afternoon. They are:
Escape to New York
Evocative writing and beautiful photographs by Jen Bandini. I cannot say enough about this blog; it effortlessly captures all the detail, turbulence, and raw feeling that comes with living in New York City, and the essays run the gamut from hysterically funny to bittersweet to utterly heartbreaking. Go now. Read everything.
To Kiss the Cook
Gorgeous food porn-prose, amazing recipes, adorable quotidian vignettes. (My recent favorite here.) If I ever move to Chicago, I will be banging on the author's door within three days and begging, begging, that she cook me something... or at least hang out with me.
Hollywood Sucker
Everything she writes is hilarious. No, really: everything is this funny. It's sick. Which makes the fact that she hasn't written anything in over a month somewhat worrisome, but since she is apparently planning a wedding and working on a screenplay, I guess it's forgivable.
Dilettantsia
High-minded, pitch-perfect cultural criticism. This blog is so interesting that I don't even mind how stupid/uncultured/illiterate I feel by comparison after reading it. (Just think of it this way: She devours big books, sees serious plays, and founds literary magazines so you don't have to.)
Also: Today, I'd like to devote this post to highlighting four blogs which are of exceptional brilliance -- blogs which you should visit immediately, as opposed to, say, later this afternoon. They are:
Escape to New York
Evocative writing and beautiful photographs by Jen Bandini. I cannot say enough about this blog; it effortlessly captures all the detail, turbulence, and raw feeling that comes with living in New York City, and the essays run the gamut from hysterically funny to bittersweet to utterly heartbreaking. Go now. Read everything.
To Kiss the Cook
Gorgeous food porn-prose, amazing recipes, adorable quotidian vignettes. (My recent favorite here.) If I ever move to Chicago, I will be banging on the author's door within three days and begging, begging, that she cook me something... or at least hang out with me.
Hollywood Sucker
Everything she writes is hilarious. No, really: everything is this funny. It's sick. Which makes the fact that she hasn't written anything in over a month somewhat worrisome, but since she is apparently planning a wedding and working on a screenplay, I guess it's forgivable.
Dilettantsia
High-minded, pitch-perfect cultural criticism. This blog is so interesting that I don't even mind how stupid/uncultured/illiterate I feel by comparison after reading it. (Just think of it this way: She devours big books, sees serious plays, and founds literary magazines so you don't have to.)
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
And in other news... remember PROM?
Earlier this year, SparkNotes asked me to put together a slideshow for their main site on the oh-so-alluring subject of Prom. The topic, specifically, was “Prom Don’ts” – a guide to bad behavior, atrocious apparel, ghastly grooming, and other common mistakes made by young people during this time-honored rite of high school passage.
Given my own, er, unique history with prom, my first urge was to shout, “Prom Don’ts? Prom DON'TS??? I’ll give you a Prom Don’t! How about, ‘Don’t let some big-foreheaded sophomore girl with self-esteem issues and dubious morals take your date to a random spring social right before prom, unless you like the idea of a) being suddenly prom-date-LESS with only a week to go, and b) being forced to watch your piece-of-crap ex-date nuzzling his vomitous two-timing face against her enormous greasy egghead on what is supposed to be the most magical night of your high school career!’ How’s that for a fucking PROM DON’T?!!”
But then, because I am a well-adjusted and mature adult who does not even remember that that ever happened*, I just said, “Ok!”
And I'm so glad I did, because frankly, I'm quite proud of the result. The final slideshow is now live and can be viewed here. Click on through! And not just because you feel sorry for me.
(Incidentally, this also means that I totally do not take inappropriate joy in the fact that Mister Ex-Date later received a karmic comeuppance when he fell down at a track meet and scraped off his entire left nipple. The whole nipple, you guys.)
Given my own, er, unique history with prom, my first urge was to shout, “Prom Don’ts? Prom DON'TS??? I’ll give you a Prom Don’t! How about, ‘Don’t let some big-foreheaded sophomore girl with self-esteem issues and dubious morals take your date to a random spring social right before prom, unless you like the idea of a) being suddenly prom-date-LESS with only a week to go, and b) being forced to watch your piece-of-crap ex-date nuzzling his vomitous two-timing face against her enormous greasy egghead on what is supposed to be the most magical night of your high school career!’ How’s that for a fucking PROM DON’T?!!”
But then, because I am a well-adjusted and mature adult who does not even remember that that ever happened*, I just said, “Ok!”
And I'm so glad I did, because frankly, I'm quite proud of the result. The final slideshow is now live and can be viewed here. Click on through! And not just because you feel sorry for me.
(Incidentally, this also means that I totally do not take inappropriate joy in the fact that Mister Ex-Date later received a karmic comeuppance when he fell down at a track meet and scraped off his entire left nipple. The whole nipple, you guys.)
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
On pigeons and pick-up artistry
Spring has hit New York in full force over the past several weeks, and in parks and public squares all over the city, this can only mean one thing:
Pigeon Sex.
Of all the animal mating rituals that accompany springtime in the city, the pigeons’ is undoubtedly the most bizarre – easily out-weirding the stray cats having loud, rapey cat sex in the alley behind our building, or the squirrels who make everyone watch their catch-me-if-you-can foreplay as they lead each other on prolonged chases through the park. If you’ve ever spent any time observing a flock of pigeons in action, you’ve probably seen it: The male pigeon struts deliberately after a female pigeon, looking extremely puffed up and self-important, dragging his fanned-out tailfeathers on the ground and making guttural hoot-and-coo noises that sound sort of like "Ohhhh yeah, OHHHH yeah, OOOOOOOOOH YEAH!"
The weirdness, of course, is that it never works.
I’ve been watching pigeons do this for all six years that I've lived in New York, and despite Mr. Pigeon’s best efforts, the hoot-and-coo-and-strut approach to mating is clearly, painfully ineffective. Instead of being rendered immediately, debilitatingly horny by the display, the Lady Pigeons all flee – in horror, judging by the looks of it – scattering in all directions and leaving Mr. Pigeon to chase awkwardly after them while still gamely continuing to hoot and coo and drag his tailfeathers. He’s just clueless. If he could talk, I’m pretty sure he’d be yelling, “Come back here, sluts!”
All told, I just can’t imagine that this ever leads to sex.
Rather, I expect that there is some other, savvier Man Pigeon who sits in a tree and watches this entire agonizing process, then flutters lightly to the ground next to the somewhat-dazed Lady Pigeon once her pursuer has taken wing. And he’s all, “That looked rough,” and the Lady Pigeon is all, “Yeah, it was,” and the pigeon is all, “Hey girl, I’d never play you like that,” and then he invites her back to his loft to listen to some vinyl, and one thing leads to another, and the pigeon population of my local park continues to rage unabated.
Still, you’d think that the other pigeons – the strutting hoot’n’cooers – would eventually notice that their game wasn’t exactly yielding great results. You’d think they might realize the flaw in their approach. You’d think they might, y’know, change it up a little.
Alas, no.
Instead, just like a guy who spends hours rehearsing pickup lines like, “So baby, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” in the mirror, convinced that it’ll totally work if he just gets the timing right, the pigeons seem to be convinced that the problem isn’t their approach at all; it’s just that they aren’t trying hard enough.
At least, that’s what I assume is happening, here. Because this morning, while walking the dog in the park, I heard a familiar sound. And there, up ahead was a pigeon. Doing the mating strut, dragging his feathers, hooting and cooing… all by himself.
He was practicing.
I tried my best to explain to Mr. Pigeon the futility of his actions. But then I went on the internet and discovered that his brain only weighs like one-quarter of an ounce, so I doubt I made much of an impression.
Pigeon Sex.
Of all the animal mating rituals that accompany springtime in the city, the pigeons’ is undoubtedly the most bizarre – easily out-weirding the stray cats having loud, rapey cat sex in the alley behind our building, or the squirrels who make everyone watch their catch-me-if-you-can foreplay as they lead each other on prolonged chases through the park. If you’ve ever spent any time observing a flock of pigeons in action, you’ve probably seen it: The male pigeon struts deliberately after a female pigeon, looking extremely puffed up and self-important, dragging his fanned-out tailfeathers on the ground and making guttural hoot-and-coo noises that sound sort of like "Ohhhh yeah, OHHHH yeah, OOOOOOOOOH YEAH!"
The weirdness, of course, is that it never works.
I’ve been watching pigeons do this for all six years that I've lived in New York, and despite Mr. Pigeon’s best efforts, the hoot-and-coo-and-strut approach to mating is clearly, painfully ineffective. Instead of being rendered immediately, debilitatingly horny by the display, the Lady Pigeons all flee – in horror, judging by the looks of it – scattering in all directions and leaving Mr. Pigeon to chase awkwardly after them while still gamely continuing to hoot and coo and drag his tailfeathers. He’s just clueless. If he could talk, I’m pretty sure he’d be yelling, “Come back here, sluts!”
All told, I just can’t imagine that this ever leads to sex.
Rather, I expect that there is some other, savvier Man Pigeon who sits in a tree and watches this entire agonizing process, then flutters lightly to the ground next to the somewhat-dazed Lady Pigeon once her pursuer has taken wing. And he’s all, “That looked rough,” and the Lady Pigeon is all, “Yeah, it was,” and the pigeon is all, “Hey girl, I’d never play you like that,” and then he invites her back to his loft to listen to some vinyl, and one thing leads to another, and the pigeon population of my local park continues to rage unabated.
Still, you’d think that the other pigeons – the strutting hoot’n’cooers – would eventually notice that their game wasn’t exactly yielding great results. You’d think they might realize the flaw in their approach. You’d think they might, y’know, change it up a little.
Alas, no.
Instead, just like a guy who spends hours rehearsing pickup lines like, “So baby, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” in the mirror, convinced that it’ll totally work if he just gets the timing right, the pigeons seem to be convinced that the problem isn’t their approach at all; it’s just that they aren’t trying hard enough.
At least, that’s what I assume is happening, here. Because this morning, while walking the dog in the park, I heard a familiar sound. And there, up ahead was a pigeon. Doing the mating strut, dragging his feathers, hooting and cooing… all by himself.
He was practicing.
I tried my best to explain to Mr. Pigeon the futility of his actions. But then I went on the internet and discovered that his brain only weighs like one-quarter of an ounce, so I doubt I made much of an impression.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A day at the office: turf wars and sausage fests!
Even though I have my share of oft-documented problems with office employment, I’ve got to admit that my current job isn’t too bad. I work independently, I’ve got creative freedom, and my performance is judged exclusively on the quality of what I produce (as opposed to, say, somebody’s bizarre and abstract notion that I just don’t seem adequately thrilled by the very act of showing up to the office every day.) In fact, all told, I’ve been perfectly happy here…
…and then came the Wannabe.
The Wannabe (see lower left panel in the above cartoon) is a classic nemesis for those of us who work in creative fields. He is that person who thinks that writing, graphic design, art direction and the like don’t require any particular skill or expertise, and therefore, that anyone – and more specifically, he himself – is awesomely capable of doing these jobs. (For the uninitiated, this is a load of crap. Creative professionals are vital to good marketing, and if you want proof, just picture a world in which this was the gold standard for advertising. That, my friends, is not a world you want to live in.)
I was blissfully unaware of the existence of the Wannabe until last week, when I attended a meeting with him. He is the manager of a new, branded product which will hereafter be referred to as the “Widget”. I was slated to present potential marketing taglines for said item. The Wannabe – let’s call him Fuckface Ravioli, because he is Italian, and also, because we can – was seated at the head of the table. The meeting was halfway finished, and I was next in line to present, when Fuckface Ravioli pulled a piece of paper covered in handwritten scrawl out of his binder.
“Oh, I came up with some taglines, too,” he said. “You know, just during lunch.”
Around the table, people blinked.
“Okay,” someone finally said. “Kat, why don’t you go first.”
In the interest of saving time, (and, uh, not totally giving away trade secrets), I will not say anything about my taglines... except that they were clever and awesome and everyone loved them. My coworkers were discussing which of two they preferred, when Fuckface Ravioli said, “Well, here are MY taglines.”
Everyone fell silent and waited.
And okay: I admit it, at this point, I was feeling mildly annoyed. As would you if, say, you had a job to do, and you were presenting your work to your team, and some jerk suddenly whipped out a piece of paper that he’d doodled on and said, “Oh, by the way, I did your job during my lunch break.” But, faced with the possibility that the jerk’s doodle sheet might contain a brilliant, life-changing idea, I chose not to speak up.
In hindsight, that was really effing stupid.
“Okay, here’s my first one,” said Fuckface Ravioli. He paused for effect, smiling broadly, then said:
“Got Widget?”
There were ten agonizing seconds of silence..
Fuckface Ravioli stared eagerly at us, jabbed his finger at the paper, and said, “C’mon guys! Got Widget? GOT WIDGET?!”
At this point, I took a closer look at the piece of paper in Fuckface Ravioli’s hand.
There were at least twenty, maybe thirty, taglines written there.
Nooooooooo.
Fuckface Ravioli continued grinning, looking from person to person, then said, “Okay, well, how about this?…
“It’s Widget time!”
It's WIDGET TIME. If there is a private hell reserved especially for copywriters, no doubt this would be one of the daily tortures. Fuckface Ravioli, laboring under the impression that his ideas were the work of a master wordsmith, readingdown his list – stopping each time to nod knowingly at each of us, as though to acknowledge our collective silence as the only natural reaction to his genius.
“Don’t forget the Widget!” he cried, grinning like a maniac. “Think Widget! A Widget is forever!”
Things continued on in this manner until he reached the final tagline, paused again for effect, and then, with a flourish, yelled:
“WHO LET THE WIDGET OUT!!!”
He looked at us. “C’mon, that’s funny, right?”
Around the table, my coworkers all appeared to be contemplating suicide.
“Sure,” someone finally said, “but it, er, may not be the best ide—“
Fuckface Ravioli cut him off.
“What does everyone else think?” he said, thrusting his paper at the group.
And then, the worst thing that could have possibly happened: One guy made eye contact.
Fuckface Ravioli pounced.
“STEVE,” he said. “Which one do YOU like?”
Steve stuttered, coughed, and then said, “Uh… I guess that one is pretty good.”
“There,” said Fuckface Ravioli, staring at me. “Steve likes my tagline.” He looked around the room. “I think we should put it to a company-wide vote. I’ll send out all your taglines, and all my taglines, and we’ll see which ones the other employees like best.”
I would have liked to do any number of things in response to this – for instance, protesting that sending thirty taglines to a company of sixty people for popular vote does not make mathematical sense; or pointing out that taking a famous ad slogan from the early nineties, removing the brand name, and inserting the word “Widget” does not equal brilliant marketing; or forcing one of my team members to stop throwing me under the goddamn bus, already, fortheloveofgod.
Instead, because I am conflict-averse – and also, because I am always the only woman in these meetings, and even though it shouldn’t matter, it really does – I just said, ‘Fine.” And then I went home and shouted a lot.
That was last week, and based on recent events, I believe that some authoritative person has since informed Fuckface Ravioli that he should stop trying to do my job. And I am totally over the whole thing.
Really, I’ve even hardly fantasized about killing Steve this week at all.
But the entire thing got me wondering: How do you make known your displeasure at some obnoxious turf-stepper's attempts to do your job -- particularly when there's not only a seniority issue at work, but a seriously wacked gender disparity as well? Readers? Help a sister out.
…and then came the Wannabe.
The Wannabe (see lower left panel in the above cartoon) is a classic nemesis for those of us who work in creative fields. He is that person who thinks that writing, graphic design, art direction and the like don’t require any particular skill or expertise, and therefore, that anyone – and more specifically, he himself – is awesomely capable of doing these jobs. (For the uninitiated, this is a load of crap. Creative professionals are vital to good marketing, and if you want proof, just picture a world in which this was the gold standard for advertising. That, my friends, is not a world you want to live in.)
I was blissfully unaware of the existence of the Wannabe until last week, when I attended a meeting with him. He is the manager of a new, branded product which will hereafter be referred to as the “Widget”. I was slated to present potential marketing taglines for said item. The Wannabe – let’s call him Fuckface Ravioli, because he is Italian, and also, because we can – was seated at the head of the table. The meeting was halfway finished, and I was next in line to present, when Fuckface Ravioli pulled a piece of paper covered in handwritten scrawl out of his binder.
“Oh, I came up with some taglines, too,” he said. “You know, just during lunch.”
Around the table, people blinked.
“Okay,” someone finally said. “Kat, why don’t you go first.”
In the interest of saving time, (and, uh, not totally giving away trade secrets), I will not say anything about my taglines... except that they were clever and awesome and everyone loved them. My coworkers were discussing which of two they preferred, when Fuckface Ravioli said, “Well, here are MY taglines.”
Everyone fell silent and waited.
And okay: I admit it, at this point, I was feeling mildly annoyed. As would you if, say, you had a job to do, and you were presenting your work to your team, and some jerk suddenly whipped out a piece of paper that he’d doodled on and said, “Oh, by the way, I did your job during my lunch break.” But, faced with the possibility that the jerk’s doodle sheet might contain a brilliant, life-changing idea, I chose not to speak up.
In hindsight, that was really effing stupid.
“Okay, here’s my first one,” said Fuckface Ravioli. He paused for effect, smiling broadly, then said:
“Got Widget?”
There were ten agonizing seconds of silence..
Fuckface Ravioli stared eagerly at us, jabbed his finger at the paper, and said, “C’mon guys! Got Widget? GOT WIDGET?!”
At this point, I took a closer look at the piece of paper in Fuckface Ravioli’s hand.
There were at least twenty, maybe thirty, taglines written there.
Nooooooooo.
Fuckface Ravioli continued grinning, looking from person to person, then said, “Okay, well, how about this?…
“It’s Widget time!”
It's WIDGET TIME. If there is a private hell reserved especially for copywriters, no doubt this would be one of the daily tortures. Fuckface Ravioli, laboring under the impression that his ideas were the work of a master wordsmith, readingdown his list – stopping each time to nod knowingly at each of us, as though to acknowledge our collective silence as the only natural reaction to his genius.
“Don’t forget the Widget!” he cried, grinning like a maniac. “Think Widget! A Widget is forever!”
Things continued on in this manner until he reached the final tagline, paused again for effect, and then, with a flourish, yelled:
“WHO LET THE WIDGET OUT!!!”
He looked at us. “C’mon, that’s funny, right?”
Around the table, my coworkers all appeared to be contemplating suicide.
“Sure,” someone finally said, “but it, er, may not be the best ide—“
Fuckface Ravioli cut him off.
“What does everyone else think?” he said, thrusting his paper at the group.
And then, the worst thing that could have possibly happened: One guy made eye contact.
Fuckface Ravioli pounced.
“STEVE,” he said. “Which one do YOU like?”
Steve stuttered, coughed, and then said, “Uh… I guess that one is pretty good.”
“There,” said Fuckface Ravioli, staring at me. “Steve likes my tagline.” He looked around the room. “I think we should put it to a company-wide vote. I’ll send out all your taglines, and all my taglines, and we’ll see which ones the other employees like best.”
I would have liked to do any number of things in response to this – for instance, protesting that sending thirty taglines to a company of sixty people for popular vote does not make mathematical sense; or pointing out that taking a famous ad slogan from the early nineties, removing the brand name, and inserting the word “Widget” does not equal brilliant marketing; or forcing one of my team members to stop throwing me under the goddamn bus, already, fortheloveofgod.
Instead, because I am conflict-averse – and also, because I am always the only woman in these meetings, and even though it shouldn’t matter, it really does – I just said, ‘Fine.” And then I went home and shouted a lot.
That was last week, and based on recent events, I believe that some authoritative person has since informed Fuckface Ravioli that he should stop trying to do my job. And I am totally over the whole thing.
Really, I’ve even hardly fantasized about killing Steve this week at all.
But the entire thing got me wondering: How do you make known your displeasure at some obnoxious turf-stepper's attempts to do your job -- particularly when there's not only a seniority issue at work, but a seriously wacked gender disparity as well? Readers? Help a sister out.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
in print: a shout-out to Australia
Last week, in what can only be described as "the writing gig of my dreams", I spent the day interviewing Nadja Auermann, Shalom Harlow, Kristen McMenamy, Stella Tennant, Amber Valetta, and Natalia Vodianova for a feature about The Model as Muse (a.k.a. this year's gala at the Met Costume Institute.) The entire day was an absolute whirlwind of activity, culminating in... well, this:
You may have seen this photo of Shalom Harlow in vintage Bob Mackie on the Met ball news feeds this week... but did you know that underneath the coat, she is wearing a SPARKLY CATSUIT?!
Despite the initial stress of sitting in the same room as six OMFG SUPERMODELS OMG OMG (and the nagging fear that I was about to have a full-on fashion fangirl seizure every time one of them spoke to me), I can honestly say that this was one of the most exciting, interesting, and informative experiences I have had as a writer. The women were articulate, thoughtful and funny in expressing the evolution of the fashion industry over the years, their giddy camaraderie was infectious, the clothes were fabulous, and not only that, Amber Valletta gave me a potato chip.
The piece is out this week, along with behind-the-scenes photos of the models, in the Aussie fashion rag GRAZIA... which means that practically none of you will be able to read it, even if you wanted to. (I'm linking to the site, but it's not available online, at least as far as I know.)
But my Australian readers -- there are 1 or 2 of you, right?-- should run to the newsstand and buy it right now.
(For everyone else, I'll post announcements if and when it gets picked up in publications stateside.)
You may have seen this photo of Shalom Harlow in vintage Bob Mackie on the Met ball news feeds this week... but did you know that underneath the coat, she is wearing a SPARKLY CATSUIT?!Despite the initial stress of sitting in the same room as six OMFG SUPERMODELS OMG OMG (and the nagging fear that I was about to have a full-on fashion fangirl seizure every time one of them spoke to me), I can honestly say that this was one of the most exciting, interesting, and informative experiences I have had as a writer. The women were articulate, thoughtful and funny in expressing the evolution of the fashion industry over the years, their giddy camaraderie was infectious, the clothes were fabulous, and not only that, Amber Valletta gave me a potato chip.
The piece is out this week, along with behind-the-scenes photos of the models, in the Aussie fashion rag GRAZIA... which means that practically none of you will be able to read it, even if you wanted to. (I'm linking to the site, but it's not available online, at least as far as I know.)
But my Australian readers -- there are 1 or 2 of you, right?-- should run to the newsstand and buy it right now.
(For everyone else, I'll post announcements if and when it gets picked up in publications stateside.)
Thursday, May 07, 2009
My Folder is full of fail.
This weekend, I got to experience the joy of my very first hard drive crash. I’m actually surprised that this didn’t happen sooner – I have been using computers for twenty years, always with flagrant disregard for the basic rules by which one is supposed to abide in order to enjoy a long and fruitful relationship with technology, and I was long overdue for a catastrophic lesson in Respecting My PC after a lifetime’s worth of shutting Windows down mid-operation, illegally downloading music, and never, ever backing up my files. Really, despite the serious aggravation of this whole thing, I’m mostly grateful that my laptop didn’t become self-aware and stage a military coup, start harvesting my internal organs for energy, or sabotage my space pod. (Yeah, I totally have a space pod. It’s awesome.)
At any rate, the computer had been threatening to do something like this for awhile – occasionally refusing to turn on, or flashing a blue error screen for a split-second during startup, only to behave totally normally five minutes later. It reminded me a little bit of a friend of mine who would occasionally interrupt our everyday activities with brief moments of complete, unadulterated insanity.
Me: Let’s order a pizza.
Him: WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME.
Me: What?!
Him: I like pepperoni.
Obviously, I was unhappy when Occasionally Insane Friend had a bit of a meltdown and his flash-in-the-pan nuttiness turned into a definitive case of crazy-all-the-time… but I can’t say I was really surprised. And similarly, when the computer shit the bed, I was able to take the entire thing somewhat in stride – especially when they can do such fantastic things with hard drive recovery these days.
The only problem is, without access to the internet and the NYMag Best-Of lists for computer services, I didn’t have the faintest idea of where to bring my little laptop for repair. And when you can’t look things up on the internet, something very bad happens: you become the advertising industry’s plaything.
Don’t believe me? Then try this:
Without hopping over to Google or Craigslist or any other such place, think quickly – right off the top of your head – of a place where PC repairs are performed.
Are you doing it?
Do you have it?
Admit it: You’re totally thinking of the fucking Geek Squad, aren’t you.
So was I.
It’s not that I didn’t know the Geek Squad is crap – I’ve read all the same articles as you have about their overpriced, under-invested, and probably more customer servicey than tech-savvy company model. But with my computer broken, and all the research tools usually at my disposal suddenly gone, my brain scrambled into its paltry archives in search of some knowledge about where I might find tech support…
…and no matter how hard I tried, all I could think of were hot nerds in white shirts and ties, leaping out of a VW beetle, and charging into my bedroom in order to save my laptop from certain destruction (and also, possibly, to have sex with me.)
(What can I say, I’m a sucker for a guy with a big external hard drive.)
And so it was that I toted the computer over to the nearest Best Buy and wandered up to the Geek Squad desk. The girl behind the counter (tech geek sex fantasy: officially derailed) took the computer, started it up, looked at the error message, and said, “Okay, we’ll have to reinstall everything. I’ll have it back to you in a few days.”
“Wait,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“I didn’t back anything up. I'm an asshole. I’m sorry.”
Geek Girl rolled her eyes. “Okay, it’ll cost you [astronomical amount of money which I am too embarrassed to reveal here].”
“Fine,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
My credit card was scanned, I’d signed my name to ten different pieces of paper, and I was about to turn to leave… when I suddenly remembered The Folder.
I’m sure that most people have a Folder on their machine – a folder full of secrets. Most people’s Folder contains pornographic videos or naked pictures. Most people can count on their Folder containing information which, while embarrassing, is not really personal.
Most people did not spend their early twenties making bank as nude models.
I turned back.
“Um, hey,” I said.
“Yes?” said Geek Girl.
“So I used to have this gig,” I said, before immediately realizing that taking my clothes off for money – as opposed to just, y’know, for fun – was probably not going to elevate me above the rank of the average pervert in the eyes of my tech support person.
Geek Girl’s eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly.
“As a photo model?” I said, as my brain shrieked, Way to make it sound legit, asshole!
The eyebrows kicked up another quarter-inch.
“Look, what I’m trying to say is, I’ve got pictures on there of a… sensitive nature. And, uh…” I trailed off.
And what?
And in about 24 hours, you’ll probably find yourself face-to-face with my nipples?
And I'll have you know that it had been a very cold winter, but I totally wax now?
And you might as well just keep the fucking computer because there is no way I am ever coming back here?!
Geek Girl laughed and waved at me in an Oh, please gesture.
“Whatever,” she said. “I see so much porn on a daily basis, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Oh, it’s not porn,” I said. “Just tits.”
Apparently, I really do rank slightly above the average pervert. So if you don't mind, I think I'll go ahead and call this one a win.
At least until one of those pictures finds its way onto the internet, at which point I'll have to smash some Geek heads.
At any rate, the computer had been threatening to do something like this for awhile – occasionally refusing to turn on, or flashing a blue error screen for a split-second during startup, only to behave totally normally five minutes later. It reminded me a little bit of a friend of mine who would occasionally interrupt our everyday activities with brief moments of complete, unadulterated insanity.
Me: Let’s order a pizza.
Him: WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME.
Me: What?!
Him: I like pepperoni.
Obviously, I was unhappy when Occasionally Insane Friend had a bit of a meltdown and his flash-in-the-pan nuttiness turned into a definitive case of crazy-all-the-time… but I can’t say I was really surprised. And similarly, when the computer shit the bed, I was able to take the entire thing somewhat in stride – especially when they can do such fantastic things with hard drive recovery these days.
The only problem is, without access to the internet and the NYMag Best-Of lists for computer services, I didn’t have the faintest idea of where to bring my little laptop for repair. And when you can’t look things up on the internet, something very bad happens: you become the advertising industry’s plaything.
Don’t believe me? Then try this:
Without hopping over to Google or Craigslist or any other such place, think quickly – right off the top of your head – of a place where PC repairs are performed.
Are you doing it?
Do you have it?
Admit it: You’re totally thinking of the fucking Geek Squad, aren’t you.
So was I.
It’s not that I didn’t know the Geek Squad is crap – I’ve read all the same articles as you have about their overpriced, under-invested, and probably more customer servicey than tech-savvy company model. But with my computer broken, and all the research tools usually at my disposal suddenly gone, my brain scrambled into its paltry archives in search of some knowledge about where I might find tech support…
…and no matter how hard I tried, all I could think of were hot nerds in white shirts and ties, leaping out of a VW beetle, and charging into my bedroom in order to save my laptop from certain destruction (and also, possibly, to have sex with me.)
(What can I say, I’m a sucker for a guy with a big external hard drive.)
And so it was that I toted the computer over to the nearest Best Buy and wandered up to the Geek Squad desk. The girl behind the counter (tech geek sex fantasy: officially derailed) took the computer, started it up, looked at the error message, and said, “Okay, we’ll have to reinstall everything. I’ll have it back to you in a few days.”
“Wait,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“I didn’t back anything up. I'm an asshole. I’m sorry.”
Geek Girl rolled her eyes. “Okay, it’ll cost you [astronomical amount of money which I am too embarrassed to reveal here].”
“Fine,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
My credit card was scanned, I’d signed my name to ten different pieces of paper, and I was about to turn to leave… when I suddenly remembered The Folder.
I’m sure that most people have a Folder on their machine – a folder full of secrets. Most people’s Folder contains pornographic videos or naked pictures. Most people can count on their Folder containing information which, while embarrassing, is not really personal.
Most people did not spend their early twenties making bank as nude models.
I turned back.
“Um, hey,” I said.
“Yes?” said Geek Girl.
“So I used to have this gig,” I said, before immediately realizing that taking my clothes off for money – as opposed to just, y’know, for fun – was probably not going to elevate me above the rank of the average pervert in the eyes of my tech support person.
Geek Girl’s eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly.
“As a photo model?” I said, as my brain shrieked, Way to make it sound legit, asshole!
The eyebrows kicked up another quarter-inch.
“Look, what I’m trying to say is, I’ve got pictures on there of a… sensitive nature. And, uh…” I trailed off.
And what?
And in about 24 hours, you’ll probably find yourself face-to-face with my nipples?
And I'll have you know that it had been a very cold winter, but I totally wax now?
And you might as well just keep the fucking computer because there is no way I am ever coming back here?!
Geek Girl laughed and waved at me in an Oh, please gesture.
“Whatever,” she said. “I see so much porn on a daily basis, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Oh, it’s not porn,” I said. “Just tits.”
Apparently, I really do rank slightly above the average pervert. So if you don't mind, I think I'll go ahead and call this one a win.
At least until one of those pictures finds its way onto the internet, at which point I'll have to smash some Geek heads.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Chigger, please.
When it comes to taking an out-of-town trip, I have a serious problem doing much of anything in a timely manner. Packing, printing out directions, getting to the airport… and now, apparently, I can add “blogging about the trip afterward” to that list. I admit it; I am a failure.
The morning of our flight, Brad went off to work early and left me to take care of the final going-out-of-town tasks – delivering the dog to the kennel, shutting down appliances, turning off lights, checking to make sure that nothing important like, say, an entire pot of red beans and rice with sausage, was left out during the four days we were away.
...Three out of four isn't so bad, right?
Especially considering that we have now had the privilege of seeing what sort of incredible, self-sustaining ecosystem is capable of growing in a mere 72 hours from a package of Goya Insta-Meal. That shit is better than agar.
Oh, right, the trip.
Charleston is beautiful!
Unfortunately, within hours of our plane landing, I noticed that my left arm seemed... itchy. Further examination yielded the discovery of two bug bites. I assumed they were from mosquitoes, but the next morning, I woke up to find that the area between my wrist and my elbow had swelled up to the size of a football.
First lesson of southern travel: beware the Carolina Biting Bugs.
(No, I did not take a picture of the arm. You're welcome.)
"You know," said Brad, as he examined my enormous forearm, "It might be chiggers."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!" I said.
Second lesson of southern travel: The concept of "chiggers", while relatively familiar to those from below the Mason-Dixon line, is indescribably and eternally horrifying to people raised in the Northeast, and should not under any circumstances be tossed out like some sort of innocuous conversational softball. I mean, really. Chiggers? Chiggers?!!
After twenty minutes of hysterical screeching about chiggers, we decided to go out in search of cortisone cream. We had made it one block when we came upon a pair of Charleston natives, who were walking the cutest black lab puppy I had ever seen.
"Awww!" I said. "What's your puppy's name?"
The couple, who were wearing matching hats with the name of a country club stitched across the brim, drawled, "His name is Uncle Remus!"
"Wow," said Brad.
"Hi, Uncle Remus," I said, bending to rub the dog's stomach.
Uncle Remus licked my calf and then rolled over to display an enormous pink dog-boner, which joined "What's wrong with your arm?" and "Wow, that's kind of racist!" on the short list of Things Which We Were Explicitly Not Saying.
It's been a week, and I still can't decide whether it's really racist to name your dog Uncle Remus -- or where the racism comes in. Is it because it's a dog? Because it's a black dog? What if it's a cat?
"Hey," said Brad, "What if they'd named it Barack Obama?"
"I can't decide if that's better or worse."
"It could be considered a tribute."
"Our dog is named after Bobby Hurley," I said.
"True," he said.
"But that doesn't mean we want to, like, subjugate Bobby Hurley and make him do our bidding and sleep on our floor."
"Speak for yourself," said Brad.
Is it racist to name your dog Uncle Remus? You tell me. For my part, I think it's probably more racist than naming him "Steve", but less racist than naming him "Ching Chong Chinaman". Although I will also readily admit that if I ever heard somebody shouting "Here, Ching Chong Chinaman!" from their back porch, I would totally laugh.
With cortisone cream successfully obtained and my arm's size somewhat back-to-normal, I was able to resume my usual vacation activities, namely, wandering around and photographing things. Charleston is full of beautiful, secret things; the historic homes and gardens are hidden behind tall walls, hedges, and gates, so that taking pictures always feels a little bit illicit.
Our last night in town, we joined Brad's parents and 30 other people on a sunset sail around the harbor. I will now leave you with my favorite photo from the weekend.
It is thoughtfully titled: "I'm On a Boat, Motherfucker!"
Peace out.
The morning of our flight, Brad went off to work early and left me to take care of the final going-out-of-town tasks – delivering the dog to the kennel, shutting down appliances, turning off lights, checking to make sure that nothing important like, say, an entire pot of red beans and rice with sausage, was left out during the four days we were away.
...Three out of four isn't so bad, right?
Especially considering that we have now had the privilege of seeing what sort of incredible, self-sustaining ecosystem is capable of growing in a mere 72 hours from a package of Goya Insta-Meal. That shit is better than agar.
Oh, right, the trip.
Charleston is beautiful!
Unfortunately, within hours of our plane landing, I noticed that my left arm seemed... itchy. Further examination yielded the discovery of two bug bites. I assumed they were from mosquitoes, but the next morning, I woke up to find that the area between my wrist and my elbow had swelled up to the size of a football.
First lesson of southern travel: beware the Carolina Biting Bugs.
(No, I did not take a picture of the arm. You're welcome.)
"You know," said Brad, as he examined my enormous forearm, "It might be chiggers."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!" I said.
Second lesson of southern travel: The concept of "chiggers", while relatively familiar to those from below the Mason-Dixon line, is indescribably and eternally horrifying to people raised in the Northeast, and should not under any circumstances be tossed out like some sort of innocuous conversational softball. I mean, really. Chiggers? Chiggers?!!
After twenty minutes of hysterical screeching about chiggers, we decided to go out in search of cortisone cream. We had made it one block when we came upon a pair of Charleston natives, who were walking the cutest black lab puppy I had ever seen.
"Awww!" I said. "What's your puppy's name?"
The couple, who were wearing matching hats with the name of a country club stitched across the brim, drawled, "His name is Uncle Remus!"
"Wow," said Brad.
"Hi, Uncle Remus," I said, bending to rub the dog's stomach.
Uncle Remus licked my calf and then rolled over to display an enormous pink dog-boner, which joined "What's wrong with your arm?" and "Wow, that's kind of racist!" on the short list of Things Which We Were Explicitly Not Saying.
It's been a week, and I still can't decide whether it's really racist to name your dog Uncle Remus -- or where the racism comes in. Is it because it's a dog? Because it's a black dog? What if it's a cat?
"Hey," said Brad, "What if they'd named it Barack Obama?"
"I can't decide if that's better or worse."
"It could be considered a tribute."
"Our dog is named after Bobby Hurley," I said.
"True," he said.
"But that doesn't mean we want to, like, subjugate Bobby Hurley and make him do our bidding and sleep on our floor."
"Speak for yourself," said Brad.
Is it racist to name your dog Uncle Remus? You tell me. For my part, I think it's probably more racist than naming him "Steve", but less racist than naming him "Ching Chong Chinaman". Although I will also readily admit that if I ever heard somebody shouting "Here, Ching Chong Chinaman!" from their back porch, I would totally laugh.
With cortisone cream successfully obtained and my arm's size somewhat back-to-normal, I was able to resume my usual vacation activities, namely, wandering around and photographing things. Charleston is full of beautiful, secret things; the historic homes and gardens are hidden behind tall walls, hedges, and gates, so that taking pictures always feels a little bit illicit.
Our last night in town, we joined Brad's parents and 30 other people on a sunset sail around the harbor. I will now leave you with my favorite photo from the weekend.
It is thoughtfully titled: "I'm On a Boat, Motherfucker!"
Peace out.
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