Say that, for the last two years running, you have spent your summers basically getting paid to live with your best friend in a desert paradise. Next say that, this year, you can’t, because you’re too busy with your thesis even to post on your blog every once in a while and far too poor to fly to Mexico. Now say that she announces she’s going to Montréal to study English for the summer, a city you’ve always wanted to see and which you’ll soon be living twelve extra hours away from. Grammatical quandaries aside, tell me, what would you do?
Here in Montréal, people are incredibly stylish. There are poor people, of course, but in general it seems that poverty is considered extremely unfashionable. Even the Mormons are setting aside the ubiquitous black backpack for a sleek satchel, and schnazzing up the white-button-down-and-black-pants look with a snappy necktie. It’s intimidating at first, but it turns out that people here are very very very friendly. They love their city and want you to love it, too, no matter how you’re dressed, and they’ll even tolerate your crappy French if you speak crappy French (which I do).
For instance: tonight we were exhausted after, oh, I dunno, six solid hours of walking (on top of yesterday’s twelve), and we wanted to grab some dinner someplace close by. We asked a girl walking down the street if she knew of a good Indian place nearby, and she said no, but tell you what: go into that hotel over there, and ask for Joey, the concierge. Tell him Maria sent you, and he’ll find you a restaurant. So we did that, and Joey magically procured the business hours for “the best Indian restaurant in the city” for us, then gave us directions. “You see that bank there, on the corner?” he asked. Sure, we said. “Okay,” he said. “Turn down that street, go past the bank, and it’s the first restaurant on the left.”
The first restaurant on the left, people.
Montréal is a city of baby-daddies. I haven’t scanned my photos thoroughly, but I’m confident that in the background of at least a couple I will find young professional fathers pushing their kids in strollers or carrying them around on their shoulders, because you couldn’t throw a rock in Montréal without hitting a baby in the arms of some tall, stubbly francophone. It’s infuriatingly sexy.
The next time I film a zombie movie, I will definitely set it in Montréal. Due to the long, miserable winters, an entire parallel urbanscape has developed underground. It haphazardly connects the Métro stations across the city, and in the event of zombie attack you could just seal it off and live down there for months and still shop at American Apparel whenever you wanted. Of course, with so many entrances and exits it would be impossible to keep the zombies out forever, lucky for my plotline.
Nohemí and I have walked all over this city, and we have brought one another up to date, and like always, it feels like no time has elapsed since the last time we were together. And, like always, we have talked about a million things that make me think, and make me think that maybe I think more than other people do sometimes, and that I like that about myself and about my friends. We swapped memories about our friend who died last year, and somehow it felt as though by evoking him from a café-térrace hundreds of miles from his or her or my home, we put something important into the world for a moment.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Breezewood
In his book Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, French anthropologist Marc Augé explores the proliferation in contemporary society of spaces such as airports, supermarkets, hotel rooms -- the sort of transient regions that fail to impress upon us a sense of individual or local identity. I have to admit that I have always found non-places sort of fascinating. I was never any good at my first job as a chambermaid; at age fifteen I would already linger too long in each hotel room, seeking out the tiny traces of uniqueness left behind by the previous night's guests. If I were anything of a photographer, I'd love to hang around non-places and photograph everyday life there.
Not long ago, I had occasion to visit one non-place that, it occured to me while I was there, has figured relatively prominently in the last several years of my life: Breezewood, Pennsylvania. I say relatively prominently, because as a girl from the Midwest I seldom have reason to end up in Breezewood -- I don't even know anyone from Pennsylvania -- yet I realized that I've been there four times in the past decade, and that my joy in arriving there each time has been surpassed only by my joy of leaving. The reason I have visited Breezewood so many times is that it is almost exactly halfway between Kalamazoo, Michigan and Williamsburg, Virginia. It was only on my last trip through Breezewood that I began to reflect on exactly how often I have made this drive.
I am not the only one who stops in Breezewood. In fact, people flock to it. As near as I can tell, the entire town's identity coalesces around the fact that it is halfway between everything, and possesses the most diverse array of gas/food/lodging for miles in any direction. This non-town is full of non-places where travelers can fulfill basic needs at a staggering number of franchises. Or, if they prefer, they can dine on the traditional local cuisine, scrapple: après hot-dogs, a dispirited blob of gray non-meat served with eggs and choice of toast or grits. Here's the thing: although everything in Breezewood is characterized by that numbing mediocrity that makes me ill at ease wherever I encounter it, I am nonetheless grateful for the chance to empty my bladder, stretch my legs, fill my gas tank, rehydrate and choose from a greater variety of unwholesome road food options, knowing that I am either slightly less than halfway there or slightly more than halfway home. And somehow, it's my memories of Breezewood that contextualize all my other memories of trips southeastward.
I've never been to Breezewood alone. The first three times I was there, I was with my ex and had no way of knowing when I would be there again or to what end. This last time I was with the neighbs, who had come down to Virginia to apartment-hunt with me, to look for a job, and to see if he could get his mind around being there with me indefinitely. As the two of us sat across from one another in a booth at the travel plaza, munching on overpriced submarine sandwiches and regarding one another with dazed highway eyes, it hit me: while Breezewood already figured disproportionately in my imagination, it was about to figure even more prominently as the place I pass through on my way back to Michigan for Christmases, Thanksgivings, graduations, weddings and funerals for years to come; my own, anonymous geographical and emotional way-station between the old life and the new one.
I wondered aloud to the neighbs what it must be like to live in Breezewood, to work at a franchise restaurant, to watch people come and go. It must feel a little like being suspended in midair, I guessed. You'd never really want to talk to anyone over long; you wouldn't want to get attached. All around you, people are on their way somewhere, and after a while their faces run together and they all seem the same: frowsy, grouchy and a bit detestable and self-important. I imagine you'd get defensive if you were from Breezewood and heard somebody like me running it down; you'd feel compelled to show that it isn't a non-place at all, that there's life and vibrance and direction. You'd try to make yourself believe that existence in this in-between had meaning and purpose, and you might even succeed, but you'd always ask yourself: where do they all come from, and where are they all going?
He has made up his mind to come with me. I think he has made up his own mind, and no one has forced him to it. I don't have to wonder what it's like to spend too long in Breezewood: it's Hell.
Not long ago, I had occasion to visit one non-place that, it occured to me while I was there, has figured relatively prominently in the last several years of my life: Breezewood, Pennsylvania. I say relatively prominently, because as a girl from the Midwest I seldom have reason to end up in Breezewood -- I don't even know anyone from Pennsylvania -- yet I realized that I've been there four times in the past decade, and that my joy in arriving there each time has been surpassed only by my joy of leaving. The reason I have visited Breezewood so many times is that it is almost exactly halfway between Kalamazoo, Michigan and Williamsburg, Virginia. It was only on my last trip through Breezewood that I began to reflect on exactly how often I have made this drive.
I am not the only one who stops in Breezewood. In fact, people flock to it. As near as I can tell, the entire town's identity coalesces around the fact that it is halfway between everything, and possesses the most diverse array of gas/food/lodging for miles in any direction. This non-town is full of non-places where travelers can fulfill basic needs at a staggering number of franchises. Or, if they prefer, they can dine on the traditional local cuisine, scrapple: après hot-dogs, a dispirited blob of gray non-meat served with eggs and choice of toast or grits. Here's the thing: although everything in Breezewood is characterized by that numbing mediocrity that makes me ill at ease wherever I encounter it, I am nonetheless grateful for the chance to empty my bladder, stretch my legs, fill my gas tank, rehydrate and choose from a greater variety of unwholesome road food options, knowing that I am either slightly less than halfway there or slightly more than halfway home. And somehow, it's my memories of Breezewood that contextualize all my other memories of trips southeastward.
I've never been to Breezewood alone. The first three times I was there, I was with my ex and had no way of knowing when I would be there again or to what end. This last time I was with the neighbs, who had come down to Virginia to apartment-hunt with me, to look for a job, and to see if he could get his mind around being there with me indefinitely. As the two of us sat across from one another in a booth at the travel plaza, munching on overpriced submarine sandwiches and regarding one another with dazed highway eyes, it hit me: while Breezewood already figured disproportionately in my imagination, it was about to figure even more prominently as the place I pass through on my way back to Michigan for Christmases, Thanksgivings, graduations, weddings and funerals for years to come; my own, anonymous geographical and emotional way-station between the old life and the new one.
I wondered aloud to the neighbs what it must be like to live in Breezewood, to work at a franchise restaurant, to watch people come and go. It must feel a little like being suspended in midair, I guessed. You'd never really want to talk to anyone over long; you wouldn't want to get attached. All around you, people are on their way somewhere, and after a while their faces run together and they all seem the same: frowsy, grouchy and a bit detestable and self-important. I imagine you'd get defensive if you were from Breezewood and heard somebody like me running it down; you'd feel compelled to show that it isn't a non-place at all, that there's life and vibrance and direction. You'd try to make yourself believe that existence in this in-between had meaning and purpose, and you might even succeed, but you'd always ask yourself: where do they all come from, and where are they all going?
He has made up his mind to come with me. I think he has made up his own mind, and no one has forced him to it. I don't have to wonder what it's like to spend too long in Breezewood: it's Hell.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
'cause everybody hates a tourist
So here's a tasty international news nugget for you, which I first heard about on - where else? npr - and which was later corroborated for me by my friend and fave keen cultural commentator, Raúl Argyr Tapia:
Apparently, in Querétaro, Mexico (where I lived for a short time on a couple of occasions), a group of emo kids was plaguing la Plaza de los Perritos (so named for the totally lovable fountain with puppies squirting water out of their mouths which graces the shady Plaza). First there were twenty or so of them congregating there on a regular basis. Their ranks slowly grew to fifty or so before some other counter-culture adolescents started the Movimiento Anti-Emo Querétaro. I believe I don't have to translate this for you, yes?
Via MSN Messenger, Facebook and Hi-5, Querétaro's punks, goths and stoners organized a bit of a rumble for this hipper-than-thou crowd. Never did they suspect that some 800 people between the ages of 14 and 17 would turn up to shove around los emos, but that's what reportedly happened. Now, it may seem like a low blow to beat up someone who would, by way of retaliation, most likely write a vengeful song about it, but here's the best part: they didn't bring guns, or knives or chains, or even use their fists. They just pulled hair and bitch-slapped los emos until they scattered like so many startled antelope in skinny jeans, their long, androgenous bangs obscuring their tears. Later, the unease spread from Querétaro to Mexico City, where events turned more violent.
Naturally, at this point, this tempest in a teacup attracted a good deal of media attention, which raised a question for many blissfully ignorant, mainstream Mexicans: what the hell is "emo"? Several emo kids were interviewed in the national media in an attempt to arrive at a conclusion about what, specifically, motivated these disenchanted youths. The latter insinuated that they were participating in a cultural movement of some kind, but not only were they unable to agree amongst themselves about what defined un emo, not one of them was able to offer a satisfactory explanation of what that cultural movement might consist of. So intriguing was this topic that the UNAM (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México) conducted a study in an attempt to determine what, if anything, it meant to be "emo". This study has tentatively concluded that "emo," in Mexico anyway, amounts to little more than a fashion trend and possesses no mores to speak of. Meanwhile, los emos protested and marched in diversity parades up and down La República.
Where to even begin with this? First off, I love that, in Querétaro anyway, teenagers had the good sense not to beat the crap out of those fifty (dis)affected kids. And I think it's fascinating that in this case the trend started in a provincial city and radiated to the Distrito Federal, which is kind of like something becoming all the rage in Wisconsin and having it take off with kids in Los Angeles.
The emo kids I met in Querétaro were, beyond a doubt, modder than mod. They had definitely perfected the look and assembled a credible dossier of obscure North American bands. But anyone from my country whom I might, in certain moments, have been tempted to designate as "emo" would eschew that classification absolutely and would certainly never, ever go on national television or march in a parade in order to justify his/her choice to dress like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds. Not that I have ever really checked, mind you, but last I checked, "emo" arose from the independent music scene, based on people just kind of going about their own business and expressing themselves, albeit at times a particularly whiny, mopy aspect of themselves. Not exactly a cohesive group, nor something you can particularly mobilize around except by putting out another 7-inch. Unless you're 14 years old and Mexican, in which case you wouldn't think of doing anything without 42 or so of your closest friends.
My sources have confirmed for me that there are no - count them, zero - Mexican emo bands. And I think that, deep down, what bothers Mexicans so much about los emos (while punkies, hard-cores, ravers and "darks" form a relatively peaceable kingdom) is that this is a hothouse flower of a trend that never could have sprung from Mexican soil. Mexicans aren't fundamentally outraged by being all alone in the universe. In fact, the nation's most famous cultural commentator, Octavio Paz, wrote that Mexicans inhabit a "Labyrinth of Solitude". Of course we're all alone in the universe, they seem to say. So what? That doesn't mean we have to act all alienated about it. In fact, it's precisely our shared solitude that makes us all the same. So the emo's angsty assertion of North American-style individuality, plus the North American music and androgenous, anti-macho looks -- all this backed by a lack of discernible ethos -- make them the consummate manifestation of all that is un-Mexican.
This whole thing is just the flipside of the whole U.S.-cultural-imperialism pizza token. This time it's gringo sub-culture being emulated. At first glance it may look anti-hegemonic, but there it is: it's gringophilia all over again.
Apparently, in Querétaro, Mexico (where I lived for a short time on a couple of occasions), a group of emo kids was plaguing la Plaza de los Perritos (so named for the totally lovable fountain with puppies squirting water out of their mouths which graces the shady Plaza). First there were twenty or so of them congregating there on a regular basis. Their ranks slowly grew to fifty or so before some other counter-culture adolescents started the Movimiento Anti-Emo Querétaro. I believe I don't have to translate this for you, yes?
Via MSN Messenger, Facebook and Hi-5, Querétaro's punks, goths and stoners organized a bit of a rumble for this hipper-than-thou crowd. Never did they suspect that some 800 people between the ages of 14 and 17 would turn up to shove around los emos, but that's what reportedly happened. Now, it may seem like a low blow to beat up someone who would, by way of retaliation, most likely write a vengeful song about it, but here's the best part: they didn't bring guns, or knives or chains, or even use their fists. They just pulled hair and bitch-slapped los emos until they scattered like so many startled antelope in skinny jeans, their long, androgenous bangs obscuring their tears. Later, the unease spread from Querétaro to Mexico City, where events turned more violent.
Naturally, at this point, this tempest in a teacup attracted a good deal of media attention, which raised a question for many blissfully ignorant, mainstream Mexicans: what the hell is "emo"? Several emo kids were interviewed in the national media in an attempt to arrive at a conclusion about what, specifically, motivated these disenchanted youths. The latter insinuated that they were participating in a cultural movement of some kind, but not only were they unable to agree amongst themselves about what defined un emo, not one of them was able to offer a satisfactory explanation of what that cultural movement might consist of. So intriguing was this topic that the UNAM (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México) conducted a study in an attempt to determine what, if anything, it meant to be "emo". This study has tentatively concluded that "emo," in Mexico anyway, amounts to little more than a fashion trend and possesses no mores to speak of. Meanwhile, los emos protested and marched in diversity parades up and down La República.
Where to even begin with this? First off, I love that, in Querétaro anyway, teenagers had the good sense not to beat the crap out of those fifty (dis)affected kids. And I think it's fascinating that in this case the trend started in a provincial city and radiated to the Distrito Federal, which is kind of like something becoming all the rage in Wisconsin and having it take off with kids in Los Angeles.
The emo kids I met in Querétaro were, beyond a doubt, modder than mod. They had definitely perfected the look and assembled a credible dossier of obscure North American bands. But anyone from my country whom I might, in certain moments, have been tempted to designate as "emo" would eschew that classification absolutely and would certainly never, ever go on national television or march in a parade in order to justify his/her choice to dress like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds. Not that I have ever really checked, mind you, but last I checked, "emo" arose from the independent music scene, based on people just kind of going about their own business and expressing themselves, albeit at times a particularly whiny, mopy aspect of themselves. Not exactly a cohesive group, nor something you can particularly mobilize around except by putting out another 7-inch. Unless you're 14 years old and Mexican, in which case you wouldn't think of doing anything without 42 or so of your closest friends.
My sources have confirmed for me that there are no - count them, zero - Mexican emo bands. And I think that, deep down, what bothers Mexicans so much about los emos (while punkies, hard-cores, ravers and "darks" form a relatively peaceable kingdom) is that this is a hothouse flower of a trend that never could have sprung from Mexican soil. Mexicans aren't fundamentally outraged by being all alone in the universe. In fact, the nation's most famous cultural commentator, Octavio Paz, wrote that Mexicans inhabit a "Labyrinth of Solitude". Of course we're all alone in the universe, they seem to say. So what? That doesn't mean we have to act all alienated about it. In fact, it's precisely our shared solitude that makes us all the same. So the emo's angsty assertion of North American-style individuality, plus the North American music and androgenous, anti-macho looks -- all this backed by a lack of discernible ethos -- make them the consummate manifestation of all that is un-Mexican.
This whole thing is just the flipside of the whole U.S.-cultural-imperialism pizza token. This time it's gringo sub-culture being emulated. At first glance it may look anti-hegemonic, but there it is: it's gringophilia all over again.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
my newfound craig's list poetry generator
[Selections from the Hampton Roads, VA "missed connections" section for April 2008, edited by yours truly]
you were working at knuckleheads, wearing a purple t-shirt
you walked by and touched me on the shoulder
and told me that it's ok to smile
you left before i could talk to you.
i would like the chance to do so.
You were insisting that we had kissed and we hadn't, then
you just grabbed my face and we made out.
I was wearing the Mets hat.
To the Hula lady at the Wal-Mart
I yelled and asked if you were trying to set a world record
Then I saw you again
I was with my 9 year old daughter, but I stopped
and watched you walk away
enjoying the sway of your hips......
i told you that the parking was free. It was a mistake
they have a box there
i saw as i was leaving.
I hope you did not get a ticket.
Paul
Looking
for the attractive busty brunette
i held hands with
at the saturday night A.A. meeting
at thalia
side door.
I was out your house in Norfolk Last night
your husband called the cops
he said you were going to hurt yourself....but after talking
it was obvious you weren’t going to.
We talked and flirted. The other officer
was outside with your husband. We both know
your reasons for what you did and
I really was attracted to you and
liked you and was so close
to giving you my number
but it was too risky
because of the other cop there (who we both agreed
was kinda weird,
lol).
I work with you and you drive me nuts.
You are in the HR dept at South and just finished college,
leaving soon to go away. I just wanted to let you know
I love the somewhat scratchy voice you have.
I was talking to my boss on the phone when you came in to pick up your big pizza order.
Your change was $5.55, which i said was ironic, and you laughed. You had on
a green/brown shirt, sweatpants, and a beautiful smile.
Let me know
Show me it was you...
J, Why?
How?
Did it not mean anything?
Do not expect sympathy!
You dress so sexy in your burnt orange car.
hello your name is ofelia
you work at dunkin donuts on battlefield
i think you are so sweet
maybe dinner or a movie
You were driving down Bland Blvd in a black wrecker
with Aces on the side of it.
I don't know if you are married.
You have brown hair and you were on the phone,
turning right onto Warwick
I saw you get into your red car at a 7-11 in Hampton.
You were Hispanic with handsome dark brown hair, thinning in the front, and dark eyes with long lashes, wearing leather pants, a duster, and a black t-shirt.
What kind of ring were you wearing on your right hand?
You looked like the devil.
I would've ridden to hell between those thighs.
Dear mexican guy with a hitler mustache...
You made me laugh
when you flipped that bald fat white guy off
who swerved in front of me when we were both heading east
on Shore Drive. I so much want to thank you.
you were working at knuckleheads, wearing a purple t-shirt
you walked by and touched me on the shoulder
and told me that it's ok to smile
you left before i could talk to you.
i would like the chance to do so.
You were insisting that we had kissed and we hadn't, then
you just grabbed my face and we made out.
I was wearing the Mets hat.
To the Hula lady at the Wal-Mart
I yelled and asked if you were trying to set a world record
Then I saw you again
I was with my 9 year old daughter, but I stopped
and watched you walk away
enjoying the sway of your hips......
i told you that the parking was free. It was a mistake
they have a box there
i saw as i was leaving.
I hope you did not get a ticket.
Paul
Looking
for the attractive busty brunette
i held hands with
at the saturday night A.A. meeting
at thalia
side door.
I was out your house in Norfolk Last night
your husband called the cops
he said you were going to hurt yourself....but after talking
it was obvious you weren’t going to.
We talked and flirted. The other officer
was outside with your husband. We both know
your reasons for what you did and
I really was attracted to you and
liked you and was so close
to giving you my number
but it was too risky
because of the other cop there (who we both agreed
was kinda weird,
lol).
I work with you and you drive me nuts.
You are in the HR dept at South and just finished college,
leaving soon to go away. I just wanted to let you know
I love the somewhat scratchy voice you have.
I was talking to my boss on the phone when you came in to pick up your big pizza order.
Your change was $5.55, which i said was ironic, and you laughed. You had on
a green/brown shirt, sweatpants, and a beautiful smile.
Let me know
Show me it was you...
J, Why?
How?
Did it not mean anything?
Do not expect sympathy!
You dress so sexy in your burnt orange car.
hello your name is ofelia
you work at dunkin donuts on battlefield
i think you are so sweet
maybe dinner or a movie
You were driving down Bland Blvd in a black wrecker
with Aces on the side of it.
I don't know if you are married.
You have brown hair and you were on the phone,
turning right onto Warwick
I saw you get into your red car at a 7-11 in Hampton.
You were Hispanic with handsome dark brown hair, thinning in the front, and dark eyes with long lashes, wearing leather pants, a duster, and a black t-shirt.
What kind of ring were you wearing on your right hand?
You looked like the devil.
I would've ridden to hell between those thighs.
Dear mexican guy with a hitler mustache...
You made me laugh
when you flipped that bald fat white guy off
who swerved in front of me when we were both heading east
on Shore Drive. I so much want to thank you.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
How did you celebrate?
It was the Pope's birthday yesterday. I know because I was listening to NPR and I heard that he spent his birthday on the south lawn of the White House. And then I heard them sing him The Birthday Song. President Bush and 9,000 of the Pope's closest friends and relations sang:
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday...
And at this point, all hell kind of broke loose, so to speak, because really, what do you actually call the Pope when you sing him The Birthday Song? I mean, it seems like a kind of silly proposition anyway. You might wish him Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag I suppose, or maybe the equivalent in Italian or even Latin. You might invite him to bathe in ambergris or anoint his feet or something, but eighty-one is a lot of candles to blow out, and whoever had to bake 9,000 cupcakes better be going to Heaven.
So there was this huge and hearty version of The Birthday Song -- ridiculous enough in and of itself -- but it seems like it wasn't rehearsed in the slightest, because everybody just balked when it came to the third line. Several people, I think, sang "Happy Birthday, Pope Benedict." My favorite, though, was actually the most prominent voice, which sang "Happy Birthday, Holy Father."
I was listening to this delectable sound-bite in my driveway with my car windows down and cackled just in time for my next-door neighbor to hear me and ask if anything was wrong. I tried to explain, but evidently, as so often happens I am the only one who thinks this is funny.
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday...
And at this point, all hell kind of broke loose, so to speak, because really, what do you actually call the Pope when you sing him The Birthday Song? I mean, it seems like a kind of silly proposition anyway. You might wish him Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag I suppose, or maybe the equivalent in Italian or even Latin. You might invite him to bathe in ambergris or anoint his feet or something, but eighty-one is a lot of candles to blow out, and whoever had to bake 9,000 cupcakes better be going to Heaven.
So there was this huge and hearty version of The Birthday Song -- ridiculous enough in and of itself -- but it seems like it wasn't rehearsed in the slightest, because everybody just balked when it came to the third line. Several people, I think, sang "Happy Birthday, Pope Benedict." My favorite, though, was actually the most prominent voice, which sang "Happy Birthday, Holy Father."
I was listening to this delectable sound-bite in my driveway with my car windows down and cackled just in time for my next-door neighbor to hear me and ask if anything was wrong. I tried to explain, but evidently, as so often happens I am the only one who thinks this is funny.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
cruel to be kind
Dear next-door neighbor,
I don't remember being invited to your nine a.m. dance party this morning, so thank you so much for reminding me by blaring bad rap music through your living room/my bedroom wall and waking me up. By the way, I feel it is my neighborly duty to unburden you of a certain notion you seem to have: YOU ARE NOT A GANGSTA. Since I know that you're not listening to gangsta rap because it's musically interesting, I can only assume it's because of the heartfelt lyrics. You don't seriously identify with that stuff, do you? Because...yyyyyyeaaaahhhh. Not a gangsta. Those basketball jerseys? Not fooling anyone. You're just a pudgy, fuzzy white college dude with a contrived Blaccent. Would you please turn that shit down, please? A couple weeks ago, we asked you twice, over the span of about ten minutes, and nothing has changed on our end since then.
While you're at it, can you turn down your girlfriend? We've been privy to every knock-down drag-out the two of you have had for a year. We know that you can't be bothered to help out around the house. We know that you don't try and that you take her for granted. We know, because she proclaimed it to the four winds a couple of months ago, that you're the first boy who ever hit her... back. We know that you categorically did NOT hang out with Her on New Year's Eve, since you reiterated this -- verbatim -- about four dozen times by way of compelling argument. For future reference, offering to call Her up on the spot to provide you with an alibi is not the best way to convince your girlfriend that you did not spend the night with Her. In fact, we recommend that you leave Her out of it altogether. It might behoove you to brush up on your rhetorical skills, since your girlfriend has definitely got you beat in the vocal projection department. Jesus, where did you find her? That girl has the pipes of a circus caller.
Now, about the trash. Seriously, where does it all come from? In one week, the neighbs and I can generate roughly three plastic grocery bags plus one recycling bin of refuse (if we're really trying), yet by the end of the week you not only fill up a whole Herbie Kerbie but also the landing down to the basement with garbage of all varieties. Nary a bulk trash day goes by that you don't expel a piece of furniture or carpet or a couple of boxes of random waste. How many couches do you have in there, and what are you doing to them? If I only knew, perhaps I could offer you some tips on where you're going wrong with the furniture.
Evidently, whatever you're throwing away, it's not your empty detergent bottles, because you've taken such a liking to my detergent that I can't leave it in the shared basement any longer. And while we're at it, next time you borrow someone's vacuum cleaner, make sure you empty the canister of all chunks of drywall before you attempt to claim you have no idea why it's broken. These incidents did not start us off on the most auspicious of neighborly relationships, you see.
Just one more thing: can you please spend a little bit more on weed? Because if my apartment has to smell like the ganja from time to time, I'd prefer that it be just a skosh {sp} less skanky.
Thank you for your prompt attention to the above matters. I'm sorry for the mean-spirited sniping. You know, I think I could tolerate it all and even withhold judgment if you were just basically considerate people who listened to bad music and didn't get along so great. But since you're not, all bets are off.
Yours truly,
The Girl Next Door
I don't remember being invited to your nine a.m. dance party this morning, so thank you so much for reminding me by blaring bad rap music through your living room/my bedroom wall and waking me up. By the way, I feel it is my neighborly duty to unburden you of a certain notion you seem to have: YOU ARE NOT A GANGSTA. Since I know that you're not listening to gangsta rap because it's musically interesting, I can only assume it's because of the heartfelt lyrics. You don't seriously identify with that stuff, do you? Because...yyyyyyeaaaahhhh. Not a gangsta. Those basketball jerseys? Not fooling anyone. You're just a pudgy, fuzzy white college dude with a contrived Blaccent. Would you please turn that shit down, please? A couple weeks ago, we asked you twice, over the span of about ten minutes, and nothing has changed on our end since then.
While you're at it, can you turn down your girlfriend? We've been privy to every knock-down drag-out the two of you have had for a year. We know that you can't be bothered to help out around the house. We know that you don't try and that you take her for granted. We know, because she proclaimed it to the four winds a couple of months ago, that you're the first boy who ever hit her... back. We know that you categorically did NOT hang out with Her on New Year's Eve, since you reiterated this -- verbatim -- about four dozen times by way of compelling argument. For future reference, offering to call Her up on the spot to provide you with an alibi is not the best way to convince your girlfriend that you did not spend the night with Her. In fact, we recommend that you leave Her out of it altogether. It might behoove you to brush up on your rhetorical skills, since your girlfriend has definitely got you beat in the vocal projection department. Jesus, where did you find her? That girl has the pipes of a circus caller.
Now, about the trash. Seriously, where does it all come from? In one week, the neighbs and I can generate roughly three plastic grocery bags plus one recycling bin of refuse (if we're really trying), yet by the end of the week you not only fill up a whole Herbie Kerbie but also the landing down to the basement with garbage of all varieties. Nary a bulk trash day goes by that you don't expel a piece of furniture or carpet or a couple of boxes of random waste. How many couches do you have in there, and what are you doing to them? If I only knew, perhaps I could offer you some tips on where you're going wrong with the furniture.
Evidently, whatever you're throwing away, it's not your empty detergent bottles, because you've taken such a liking to my detergent that I can't leave it in the shared basement any longer. And while we're at it, next time you borrow someone's vacuum cleaner, make sure you empty the canister of all chunks of drywall before you attempt to claim you have no idea why it's broken. These incidents did not start us off on the most auspicious of neighborly relationships, you see.
Just one more thing: can you please spend a little bit more on weed? Because if my apartment has to smell like the ganja from time to time, I'd prefer that it be just a skosh {sp} less skanky.
Thank you for your prompt attention to the above matters. I'm sorry for the mean-spirited sniping. You know, I think I could tolerate it all and even withhold judgment if you were just basically considerate people who listened to bad music and didn't get along so great. But since you're not, all bets are off.
Yours truly,
The Girl Next Door
Sunday, March 23, 2008
what we have here is a failure to communicate
Ever had one of those days when you feel like, no matter how clearly and concisely you're expressing yourself, and however logical and reasonable your ideas sound to you inside your head, the moment you try to communicate those ideas to other people they look at you as if you're speaking gibberish or like you're out of your mind? While I have had a number of these days right in my home town, a recent experience suggests to me that by moving several states south I'm letting myself in for a lot more of them.
Mind you, coastal Virginia doesn't consider itself southern. Why, we're just two hours south of D.C, they say. Now, if you go inland from us, then you'll see something. There's this travel-west-to-get-south mentality that seems just about as logical as the Michigan theory that Indiana is the armpit of the universe (which, despite the facts that I myself have Indiana ancestors and can find no explanation for it in personal experience, I feel profoundly and fervently believe).
Anyway, in anticipation of our pending visit to Newport News, I called a management company hoping to set up a couple of apartment showings so we could get a feel for the type of apartment we might rent, what we can get for our money and so on. Now, I don't know if it's company policy, state law or something in between, but the receptionist very quickly made it clear to me that they couldn't show me anything that's coming available in August, but instead only what's available right now. I tried to emphasize that that was okay, that I was just trying to get a feel for the area, but she got downright snippy with me, saying that her company did not traffic in cookie-cutter residences (which was why I called them in the first place, by the way), but that she would put me through to a man named Billy, who might be able to assist me further. So she put me through to Billy, who said, "This is John, how can I help you," which I guess is just how they do things in Virginia, and he continued to address me as a pushy, uppity damn Yankee with a question that was both odd and unreasonable.
Eventually we came to understand one another, a little, I think, and Billy-John agreed to let me give him a holler when I'm in town. I'm thinking and hoping that this is all in my head, and that my misfire with Billy-John and company was not a consequence of my saying "you guys" instead of "y'all" (which I heard myself do at least twice) but instead just one of those things.
Mind you, coastal Virginia doesn't consider itself southern. Why, we're just two hours south of D.C, they say. Now, if you go inland from us, then you'll see something. There's this travel-west-to-get-south mentality that seems just about as logical as the Michigan theory that Indiana is the armpit of the universe (which, despite the facts that I myself have Indiana ancestors and can find no explanation for it in personal experience, I feel profoundly and fervently believe).
Anyway, in anticipation of our pending visit to Newport News, I called a management company hoping to set up a couple of apartment showings so we could get a feel for the type of apartment we might rent, what we can get for our money and so on. Now, I don't know if it's company policy, state law or something in between, but the receptionist very quickly made it clear to me that they couldn't show me anything that's coming available in August, but instead only what's available right now. I tried to emphasize that that was okay, that I was just trying to get a feel for the area, but she got downright snippy with me, saying that her company did not traffic in cookie-cutter residences (which was why I called them in the first place, by the way), but that she would put me through to a man named Billy, who might be able to assist me further. So she put me through to Billy, who said, "This is John, how can I help you," which I guess is just how they do things in Virginia, and he continued to address me as a pushy, uppity damn Yankee with a question that was both odd and unreasonable.
Eventually we came to understand one another, a little, I think, and Billy-John agreed to let me give him a holler when I'm in town. I'm thinking and hoping that this is all in my head, and that my misfire with Billy-John and company was not a consequence of my saying "you guys" instead of "y'all" (which I heard myself do at least twice) but instead just one of those things.
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