September 11th, Which Won't Go Away

So I was at work today, as I tend to be on weekdays, milling about when a coworker asked me "do you really love New York?"

Of course it took me a good second or two to figure out that a) said coworker was being cheeky and b) she asked me because I'm wearing a nice, touristy I heart NY tshirt. Naturally I guffawed at her, insisting that duh I love New York, I lived there for two goddamned years and I miss Brooklyn every day so help me god etc.

What didn't occur to me until a few hours later is that today is September 11, and, that I was unintentionally showing some sort of patriotic solidarity with my East Coast brethren. It had been a usual roll out of bed and into the shower morning; I just grabbed the quickest t-shirt I could find and ran out the door to try (and fail) to catch the bus.

So it's 9/11. And every year on 9/11 I spend all day suddenly remembering that I'm existing in my own little world on a day that matters so much and yet flies by in a blink. I always want to say "yeah, New Yorkers still feel that moment every day," or "I used to go by Ground Zero on the way home at night, it's so weird, a big, gaping hole," or "I knew a girl whose mom died."

The thing though is that none of that shit matters a whole lot. Not to you, or, really, to me. And I'm trying so hard to make 9/11 matter that I'm worried about the size of my patriotism as if I were an frat boy stuffing his shorts. Truth: America is fucked up, just like everywhere else. But I think it's a great country to live in, every day, where we have the freedom to tell our stories and watch racy shows on cable TV and show our big, meaty legs in short shorts.

I met a cool lady tonight, Randa Jarrar, who wrote my new favorite book, A Map of Home (review to come in my next book post). She's an Arab American, and I told her that I was gonna send her book to my grandmother, who has never met an Arab person before and is terrified of Muslims. I told her that my gran a smart lady who just doesn't have any experience to show her otherwise. The thing is, the story of Nidali, the girl in Randa's book, is the story of every little girl, the story of finding self-identity and the struggle of adolescence. It's a totally cultural book, set in the Middle East, but it's hysterical and heartbreaking and perfect.

If I had my way A Map of Home would be in every high school library, even though the Tipper Gores and the Sarah Palins of our country would be all over it for the sex and the dirty words and the violence. But, that's how life is, and if we could all see through Nidali's eyes, through Randa's words, I think the youth of America would stand a chance at fighting the bullshit cultural war we've gotten ourselves into.

And on that note, I hope I never write about September 11 again. I hope it's all out of my system. Then again, I'm nothing if not repetitive.

American Satire & Obama Drama

Since I've been getting emails and IMs about this, I figured I may as well lay it out here in Ye Olde Blog. I think there's nothing wrong with The New Yorker's recent cover. You know, the one causing all the ruckus, since it's got the Obamas all dressed up like terrorists. Since I'm not terribly politically-minded, I can only assume all y'all are harassing me 'cause I used to work at that fine magazine. That's ok. Just let me share my piece.

I really think the biggest problem with the cover has nothing to do with the magazine or the artist (Barry Blitt) at all. I think the biggest problem is that American's don't get satire. And that's fine, except, there are a lot of smart media outlets like TNY that are really great with satire, and the Obama cover is a perfect example. It addresses all the propaganda that the right-wing pundits are throwing at the Obama campaign. You know, that bullshit about him being a terrorist, a Muslim (and who cares if he were, really, but that's another blog for another day), etc. It highlights that "terrorist fist jab," has a flag burning in the fire place, and a portrait of Bin Laden on the wall. I mean, really, folks, what's not to get about this? It's so absurd, it has to be a joke.

And, okay, okay I get that it's a controversial cover. But seriously, the folks at The New Yorker are smart people, and you shouldn't think for a minute that they weren't expecting some sort of lashback from Obama supporters and the liberal media. And they know exactly what Fox News and all those conservative pundits are going to do with that - but, let's face it, those guys are preaching to the converted. You could put Obama in a crown of thorns, a frilly pink dress, or a Hitler-esque mustache on a magazine cover and these folks are still going to refer to him as "B. Hussein Obama" when they call in to raise a stink on talk radio.

But let's face it folks, controversy sells. This cover is going to move units, and that should make Obama supporters happy. If you actually open the magazine, you'll find not one but two articles on the senator. Now, given that a) I don't work at TNY anymore and b) as a result of a) I'm broke (and busy), I haven't had the time or money to sit down and read the articles (you may have noticed I'm up to my ears in teen and middle grade books), but, given the way the magazine tends to lean, you can be pretty sure that they have something good to say about Obama. At the very least, you know that they are going to be smart, no-bullshit pieces. And, you know what? That's exactly what the skeptical and the undecided need to read.

Yes, I support Obama. As I previously stated, I'm not very smart about politics. I'm one of those horrible people that gets pissed off when the President gives a speech or there's an important debate and it interrupts my TV programs. I don't read a lot of political magazines (or any, these days - like I said, too many kids' books), and I don't do a lot of research on the candidates. That said, I have seen Obama speak, I've heard what he has to say, and it seems to me he has a lot of good ideas for the American people, and the drive, ambition, and will-power to see these ideas through to fruition. Barack Obama loves America. For Chrissakes, anyone who is going to let a magazine cover dissuade them of that fact was never willing to consider Obama's character in the first place.

In conclusion: what's the big deal?

In another conclusion: I think you guys just need something to complain about. As if there wasn't enough already. Seriously.

Only The Fashion Police Can Judge Me

There is little more unnerving than cleaning out your closet and taking your clothes to a consignment store. Let me explain.

I have a clothing addiction. It's been a problem since I first started my career as a mallrat in the 7th grade. I bought things that I thought were hip, but not suited to my body type, just because they were on sale at Contempo for $4. As I got into high school I would buy things that I would have to take in or fix because, well, this is a deal and just because the zipper is busted, well, $12 for this twill tube dress is just awesome! By college I had discovered the glory of eBay and the array of DIYers and thrift-store junkies that sold their goods therein. I wound up with clothes that didn't quite fit or that weren't quite like what they appeared as in the listing or that were so outrageous that I wore them to one party or on one day at class and then stuffed back into my teeny tiny exploding college dorm closet.

You can imagine how much my wardrobe expanded when I lived in Brooklyn for two years, with a professional salary to boot. I went to actual (not virtual) thrift stores, bargain stores like Daffy's, and neat local shops. There was an H&M on almost any corner and I knew where to find the best sales at the cool boutiques. When I started packing to move to Austin, I found tons of clothes that still had the sales tags in my closet. In addition, you can imagine, I pulled out many skirts, jackets, shoes and t-shirts that were never going to see the light of day again. And, so, I took them to Beacon's Closet, the hippest thrift store I'd ever been to, and dumped my items on their counter.

My boyfriend, Mark, came with me that day for emotional support. We went to lunch while they evaluated my goods, and I dreamed of the pile of money I was going to rake in. Much to my chagrin, I became only $11 richer that day, despite the designer jeans (still with tags!), funky vintage waitress dresses, trendy shoes and cashmere sweaters I had in the huge bag. They told me "we bought these two pair of shoes which will retail for $35," and gave me a voucher to cash at the front of the store. My heart pretty much dunked itself in sadsauce, but I had already resolved to, for the sake of the move, give whatever the didn't take to charity. I took my $11 and swallowed my pride.

Pride, because, what feels worse than a bunch of hipsters telling you "only two pairs of shoes in this whole bag of swag are cool enough for our store"? My answer is this: hipsters going through even MORE of your clothes in an even HIPPER town while you watch them reject pieces one by one.

Today my dear friend Katy gave up some of her time to take me and four big shopping bags' worth of clothes and shoes to a really cool shop called the Buffalo Exchange. Apparently this is a national chain, so you might have one near you. Reader, I must tell you, get thee to one of their locations should you find one in your area. What variety! What style! What a disaster for a girl on a mission to save more money this year! Katy and I browsed the aisles briefly while one of the super-hip store managers began to evaluate my clothes. Quickly we decided to go back to the counter before either of us were tempted to part with some sweet, sweet green. I found myself eying her, praying in my head each time she grabbed an item out of the bag: Please take this one, please take this one, this one is sooooo awesome!

Damn. It's like being personally evaluated on a cool-o-meter over and over. In my head I imagined her saying "Wow, this girl is so lame — she bought this hideous sweater!" and "Jesus, why would she think this is hip? This isn't vintage, this is dated!" and "There's 'so ugly it's cute,' and 'so ugly it should be burned!'" I supposed I live more in fear of judgment than the average gal, but I'm willing to bet I'm not the only person who feels this way at the counter of a consignment store. At least I made more than $11 today. I walked out with a clean $53.20. And promptly took Katy on a very romantic date at Sonic. We even shared dessert.

Hug Your Mail Man (or Woman)

I can really understand why postal workers are so grumpy. They do what I've been avoiding my whole life: dealing directly with the public. I was at the post office today and the line was a slow-moving fifteen people deep when I walked in. Some of these people had children with them, one of which was running wild, playing with the stamp machine and one of the mailboxes.

I don't know about where you live, but where I live, the postal workers are all behind double panes of bullet-proof glass. You speak through an intercom, and any time you give them something (or vice versa) you open your side of the window to place the item on the counter and after you close your side, they open theirs to retrieve your goods. National security at its finest.

So you can see, perhaps, why the line of customers moves slower than molasses in January. Mailing a letter requires quite the rigmarole - opening and closing windows, etc. - and if you're the attendant dealing with a cranky old woman (my neighborhood has its share) who can't hear or can't lift the heavy glass or just feels like being difficult, it's going to take that much longer, and you're going to wish that much harder for a freak tornado/tsunami/nuclear explosion to blow up your postal district.

Enter my new best friend, the Automated Postal Center. The APC, or, as I like to call him, the MailBot, is a lovely little machine that I've seen in several post offices that will do almost everything a human postal worker can do without any attitude or security systems. And, in my neck of the woods, there's never a a line. There was one man in front of me today, and the only other time I've had to wait was so that the receipt paper could be replaced. So, why on earth would you wait in that long line to mail a letter when, using your debit or credit card, you can purchase stamps, weigh and mail a package, and purchase delivery confirmation or insurance.

I'm in the post office every week at least once. I mail out submissions to lit journals like a well-oiled machine. On top of this I have friends all over the globe, not to mention a boyfriend in Texas and a wee sister at her first year in college up in Maine. Care packages are necessary. The MailBot gets me. He doesn't judge the amount of mail I send — though I'm sure the mail carrier considers it odd that I receive so many small manila envelopes addressed to me in tag-like print (my goofy handwriting) without any return label (rejection letters). And the MailBot is just so fun to use! With a touch screen and perfect postage you can affix yourself, there's nothing better. Except, well, a lot of things. But, as an individual obsessed with mail, I have to give props.

And let's give those postal workers a break, eh? They have to deal with plenty of stooges every day. I'm sure they love the MailBot, too.

We're the 'Brews

Friday night we'll be drinkin' Manishewitz
Goin' out to terrorize Goyim
Stompin' shaygetz, screwin' shiksas
As long as we're home by Saturday mornin
Cause hey, we're the Brews
Sportin' anti-swastika tattoos
Oi Oi we're the boys
Orthodox, hasidic, O.G. Ois
--NOFX

So my friend Rich was in town from the Pittsburgh area this weekend. On Sunday evening he and I decided, after yet another failed attempt to go see a movie, to head over to the Brooklyn Industries outlet store in Williamsburg. Williamsburg is this weird little part of Brooklyn that is sort of ghetto-as-fuck, but also swarming with hipsters who pay massive amounts of rent for recently converted factory-to-apartment shitholes (hey, I have yet to see a nice Willy-B apartment, and I've seen quite a few, including one that was BARELY two bedrooms, had two walls knocked down and no bathroom sink. Oh, PS, the kitchen floor is coming apart. $1600/mo.). Williamsburg is also a major hub for Hasidic Jews.

Backing up a bit, we drove there from my place in Bensonhurst, which is just outside Borough Park, which, reportedly, has one of the largest concentration of Orthodox Jews outside of Israel. It's not uncommon for me to run into Hasidim at the postoffice, on the train, in the shops, or on the sidewalk. We don't talk, but their culture is fairly insular. I did a lot of Wikipedia research on them after my room mate started saying that she thought they hated her. She goes running, often in short shorts and a tank top, and was, at the time, convinced that they found her offensive. Honestly, I think that we place others' judgments on ourselves when we don't quite understand said others' culture. I learned that they don't shake hands because they consider all touches intimate. I learned that their marriages aren't arranged but rather adults in the community set up their kids on dates. I learned about the ways that the keep alive the Yiddish language.

So when Rich and I went barreling down 18th Avenue (really it was more of a crawl in rush hour traffic) in his red Jetta, blasting "The Brews" by NOFX, with the windows rolled down, well, I blushed a bit as we hit Borough Park. You can't look left or right without seeing Hasidim, and, while I'm sure they didn't care or know that we — two back-woods gentiles — were listening to a song that, in its own way, celebrates Jewish culture, It was like a 'hood-wide awkward mo'.

And, to bring this full circle, as we exited the BQE, now full of the Big Gulp coke (no ice) we'd gotten at 7-Eleven (fountain soda felt necessary after our big plan to see a movie in Cobble Hill was quashed), the NOFX record had begun to repeat itself. Through the streets of Williamsburg "The Brews" played again, and the 'brews were out and about, and Rich and I laughed.

The Lock-Out Blog

If this were a proper lock-out blog, it would have been written while I was actually locked out of my apartment on Tuesday night. Of course that means I would have had to write it on my cell phone somehow, and, seeing as I don't have a Crackberry or any sort of high-tech CIA-issue tracking device variety of phone, this would have been a frightening endeavor.

I could have written it immediately after breaking in to the apartment, but it was, by that time, 3:15 am, and even this night owl needed some shut-eye.

The irony in all this (I think, anyway, as the true meaning of irony has always eluded me), is that i had my keys. My room mate and I spent a good half an hour banging on our own door after bending my key in the deadbolt lock. It wouldn't budge. We tried to MacGyver our way in, too, with a barrette but mostly wound up embarrassing ourselves. Eventually we called a locksmith who took a power drill the the cylinder and woke up our neighbors. They were not pleased. One of them is a scary feminazi who listens to Ani Difranco on vinyl (you can learn a lot of things simply by looking at a person's mail) and does not mince words. I made them cookies. That is how we deal with things where I come from.

So, who is to blame? Us or the landlady? After a shouting match with said landlady over the phone my room mate and I were too frazzled to think straight. All four of our parents told us to ask around and to stop freaking out. Apparently in NYC the landlord is only responsible for putting a regular lock on the door - like the one in the doorknob. The deadbolt lock, or any other locks, are the responsibility of the tenant to maintain. The landlady came over yesterday afternoon and hugged it out with my room mate who gave her the rest of my cookies. We're splitting the locksmith's charges ($255) three ways, which is better than footing the bill ourselves, but not as great as being reimbursed.

So, friends. Got any good lock out stories? The only one I have that beats this one is December 6, 2003. It was my 21st birthday, and had had a glass of cheap champagne, two bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade, and a Coors Lite. As a total lightweight, this rendered me totally drunk. My friends locked me out of my room for pranking purposes, then forgot to unlatch the lock before shutting the door and running away. I had to call a campus safety officer for a lockout, wearing a vintage 1980s evening gown (it was Festivus, as well, par-tay), and, of course, he asked me to sign a lockout form. I still have it, as a marker of the night I couldn't sign my own name.