Look, Mom! No Spell Check!

The Letter To Our Child (If We Ever Had One)

2008-10-28T17:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Kid,

You don't exist. You may never, as your dad and I are very content newlyweds, happier planning trips to India, deciphering what kind of toilet porcelain feels better on our butts, and dreaming up insanely funny sketches. Underneath all that spontaneity, however, are two people that crave stability, predictability, and a quiet night's sleep - unfettered by poopy diapers or little grumbling bellies. So you see, there is a good chance that you may never come into being.

But in case you do, I know you would be angry as hell at your parents for not documenting what is arguably the most significant historical event of their generation. You would accuse your parents of depriving you of "the meta-narrative that typifies The MySpace Generation" - or whatever two-dimensional label the pundits decide to stick on us in ten year's time - and then sulk and play Guitar Hero* or something.

So here goes.

Kid, by the time you read this, you will hopefully have learned that $8 is how much we pay you to mow the lawn (inflation adjusted, of course), $800 is monthly rent for a rat-infested studio in the worst part of Miami Beach, and $8,000 is about 1/13 of the top prize money on "Survivor." Now, close your eyes and imagine $8 multiplied many, many times over. Keep on going until you reach $800 billion. Mom can't tell you how many zeros this takes. She's the only Asian person in this world who is bad at math. Anyhow, just trust me when I say this. $800 billion is something that middle-class taxpayers like your mom and dad can't afford. And we are sorry to have stuck you with this debt, even before you were born. So, lesson #1: If you hear anyone talk about free markets as the solution to all of society's problems, feel free to punch them in the face. Mom and dad give you permission.

Also, you might find some weird anomalies in our family photos, like dad squinting into the sun without an over sized visor on, or mom actually walking barefoot on what looks like...sand! That isn't trick photography. In our day, there were still vast, blue oceans, majestic redwood forests, imposing glaciers, and the sweet smell of wet earth after the rain. Your dad and I are happiest when we're out in the open, wordless, at one with Nature. We want you to share in the wonder of our beautiful earth too. So, we walk whenever we can, and try not to buy stuff that we don't need. Dad even drives a hybrid. But our efforts may be too little, too late .You may now be suffering from melanoma, empheseyma, and and lingering cataracts. Lesson #2: Any politician who says "Drill, Baby, Drill," doesn't think that global warming is man made, and disregards the advice of climatologists and environmental scientists, is not only irresponsible and selfish, but a complete friggin' whack job to boot.

"How did this happen?" you may ask. "Why are we here?"

The long answer is, a Connecticut-blueblood-turned fake-Texas-cowboy stole the election on November 8th, 2000, thereby sticking your parents, and all their loved ones, with 8 horrifying years of right-wing demagoguery. The short answer is, Kid, we just weren't listening. And because we didn't listen, we didn't see how a select elitist few were stealing away the country that we love, right before our very eyes.

During Bush's 8 year tenure, you dad and I would read the daily newspapers, and feel alternately helpless and furious. Guantanamo Bay, the erosion of women's right to choose, unfettered cronyism, Intelligent Design, reduced stem-cell research funding, middle-class tax hikes. And two senseless, bloody, ill-conceived wars. The degree to which our country has become spiritually ravaged, while driven further and further apart by wedge politics, is something that we haven't begun to comprehend yet. When Bush vetoed the water boarding ban in March of this year, citing torture as "one of the most important tools on the war on terror," good Americans everywhere realized that we had indeed destroyed our moral standing in the eyes of the international community.

But kid, if there is one thing that you should know about our country - it is this: our burning desire for progress and self-invention may be temporarily stifled, but never snuffed out. In a rag tag nation of WASP country clubbers and Chinese busboys, of beleaguered Hatian mothers and Irish union members - dissent is not only expected, it is mandatory. Your mom was born and raised in a country where a free press was unheard of, where people were terrified of speaking out against the government. When she emigrated to the United States, the liberty was intoxicating. The notion of each individual's inalienable right to speak, read, and think of her own accord was at once simple, yet incredibly profound.

This uniquely American covenant is predicated on trust. Trust that each person seeks truth. Trust in the citizenry to intelligently weigh the needs of the individual versus the community, and trust in the fair, and even-handed application of laws. This trust has been besieged and eroded by the Bush administration. But not eradicated. Never.

In October of 2008, your mom and dad joined millions of Americans throughout the United States to vote early for Obama. We didn't mind the wait, the hot sun, or the long lines. We knew, deep in our bones, that this historic turnout was to be expected for a historic Presidential candidate. Where McCain trotted out more of the same GOP-patented fear, hate, and vitriol, Obama offered answers, healing, and unity. When an increasingly inter-connected global community demanded sophisticated solutions to complex problems, McCain offered anger and flippancy, Obama, reason and dialogue.

In just 2 days, a new leader of the free world will be unveiled. Your mom and dad plan to ring in this joyous, historic occasion with their friends, mom yelling not-so-niceties at the red states on TV, while dad mocks Sarah "Mooseburger" Palin incessantly.

As with everything else, November 4th will come and go. The passage of time and history may yet judge our candidate and his policies unfavorably. But whatever happens, know that your mom and dad were part of a great national dialogue, a respite from the hate, a moment larger than themselves. A coordinated, national effort between black and white, between young and old, between the haves and the have-nots, to put aside our differences, and stand together as one.

And that, kid, is what it means to be an American.

Love,
Mom

ps. Dad wants to note for the record that at this time, we are really into "The Wire" and "MadMen."

psII. Um, you're not going to turn into Michael J. Fox's necktie-wearing, Reagan-loving character on "Family Ties", right?

*Guitar Hero: Caveman-like video game that simulates guitar playing with an accompanying glam-metal score, usually Aerosmith or Guns N' Roses.

Sneaks and Freaks - Kickin' it Old Skool at Rock the Bells

2008-08-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it. I have an unyielding obsession with anything 80's. Sour Patch Kids, Soap-On-A-Rope, Alf lunchboxes, The Cosby Show - you name it, I probably spent a good portion of my measly $20/week allowance on it.

It goes without saying that when Rock the Bells blew into Miami's Bayfront Park Arena, I was happier than Angela Bauer when she walked in on Tony Danza, wet, lathered up, and showering on "Who's the Boss?" This year's lineup featured a unique hybrid of old skool denizens: Mos Def, Kidz In The Hall, The Pharcyde, and headliner A Tribe Called Quest. The New Regime received equal billing with the likes of Nas, Raekwon, Ghostface, and Philly ingenue, Santogold. But, it was De La Soul that had me turning cartwheels. In the three days leading up to Rock the Bells, I practically danced all the way to work with the best of "3 Feet High and Rising" blasting through my headphones. De La, you see, represents much that is cyclical in this world - the youth and vigor of D.A.I.S.Y, the rampant, viral social dillusionment in "De La Soul is Dead," and the Walmart-friendly McRecord that was "The Grind Date." After months of sieving through tired Billboard chart toppers on the radio, I was antsy. Rabidly hungry, in fact, to sink my teeth into some good music.

On Saturday afternoon, The Israeli Princess and I pulled up to a veritable explosion of politically high-minded rhymes. By the time we scrambled onto Bayfront Park's grassy knoll, M-1 and stic.man had launched into "It's Bigger Than Hip Hop." Saying that the crowd was pumped would have been a gross understatement. Even the Heineken beer guy had spontaneously hiked his shirt up to waist-level, and was chanting along with the crowd, "One thing about music, when it's real they get scared/Got us slavin' for welfare/Ain't got no food, clothes, or healthcare."

Indeed. All around me, young city hipsters with asymmetrical bangs were looking bored and sardonic, while the South Dade contingent thronged the grounds with easy grins and warm beers. I blinked. Were those....J Crew couples, with starched cotton shirts and khakis, bopping to "Till We Get There?" Check. And was that an overweight goth kid with nose-to-navel piercings, ala Wichita, Kansas, sharing a j with a Mr. T lookalike? Check. The crowd was clearly as diverse as one could get, and yet, the common denominator at this show turned out to be neon Converse high-tops. Everyone was rocking them. I looked at my feet, then over at The Israeli Princess'. Flip flops. Ruining Presidential elections and street cred since 2004.

Next up was Brooklyn hip hop impresario, Mos Def. He took the stage to thunderous applause, wasting no time in informing the crowd that "Corporate forces is runnin' this rap ***/Old white men is runnin' this rap ***/Viacom is runnin' this rap ***/Mos Def is runnin' this rap ***." And run the rap *** he did. The former Black Star frontman launched into his sleeper hit, "Brooklyn." The rhymes were the same - a trip down memory lane, the recollection of Izod shirts and his childhood in Bed-Stuy. But gone was the steely, sometimes hard-edged inflection in his voice. Mos Def seems to have embraced his status as one of the Founding Fathers of Hip Hop, and as a result, has emerged as a seasoned performer who is finally comfortable in his own skin. Nearly ten years later "New World Water" was just as fresh as I remember it. The quirky, tinkling riffs actually sounded better than when "Black On Both Sides" hit record stores in '99. To my right, the girl with the long pink dreads sighed, closed her eyes and leaned back on her beach towel, soaking it all in. It made me think of a conversation that I had with my nine year old nephew.

"Mos Def? Who's that?"

"Only one of the most gifted hip hop artists, ever."

"I don't know him. He must be old. I like T Pain."

I watched the 16 olds around me dance barefoot, toes curling in the grass, while Mos Def ripped on contemporary rappers "moving fast, but thinking slow" in "Close Edge." Mos Def may be old, but that cat gets better with age. Take that, T Pain.

The high point of my day arrived when De La Soul took the stage. They opened with "Rock Co. Cane Flow", the wryly sardonic ditty about a hip hop act that achieves and super-stardom, only to be dogged by "news vans" and the folly of "lights, camera, action", until it's "too old to rhyme, too bad, too late." For anyone else who wasn't there to witness the magic, De La Soul was anything but too old, or too late. Alongside Ghostface, they killed with "He Comes" and "Shopping Bags (She Got From You)." Next to the frozen lemonade stand, a two year old girl was firmly esconced in a spirited pop and lock showdown with her father, while Black Sheep belted out the immortal lyrics that everyone born before 1980 knows:

"Engine engine number 9/On the NY Transit Line/If my train goes off the track/Pick it up/Pick it up/Pick it up!"

Watching them, I realized that this was how the gift of good music gets passed down, from generation to generation. Not through slick marketing campaigns, or viral Youtube videos. Not through celebrity endorsements, or the latest focus groups. Not even through us. Good music lives on through two year old kids, who, on a hot Saturday afternoons, decide to kick off their sandals, let the breeze run through their hair, and dance unashamedly to That One Great Song. And in the summer of 1989, wasn't life a lot simpler?

"You can get with this/Or you can get with that."

See, kids? This is the infallibility of good music - it actually makes sense.

How I Figured Out the Global Peace Process, Just By Getting Married

2008-07-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

Who needs the United Nations, anyway? Of what use was the U.N. , when Bush basically steamrolled over Herr Whathisname, and unilaterally invaded and occupied a (curiously oil-rich) country in the Middle East? You *know* those U.N. diplomats are only in it for their nifty NYC parking stickers. To hell with the U.N. My friends, if you really want to learn about how the peace process is conceived and executed - marry outside of your culture.

Here are my empirical research findings from 6 months of being married to a Nice Jewish Boy:

Step 1. The global peace process should begin with China and Israel agreeing to mutual arms disarmament program.

Step 2: To end the conflict over "Who has a longer history?" both countries agree to split the difference between their respective calendar years (5768-4706 = 1062)

Step 3: China agrees to provide Israel with 4,000 years of heartburn inducing Szechuan chicken. The Jews agree to not complain and send their entrees back.

Step 4: Israel agrees to supply China with sub-par discount electronic items. The Chinese agree to not sigh loudly and shamelessly haggle.

Step 5: There will be an exchange of intellectual property. Chinese moms will teach Mossad agents on how to inflict real torture. Israelis will introduce post-Communist China to even worse disco music than the Chinese are accustomed.

Step 6: Both countries agree to uphold their time-honored national policies of guilting their children into grad school.

Step 7: China and Israel must unite against the common enemy that is infiltrating their homelands - Miley Cyrus.

Because The Angel Moroni Loves His Colombian Dark Roast, Sans Creamer

2008-04-07T17:53:00.000-07:00

A month ago, I got an email from a very nice man named Ed, who owns Just Add Coffee, an indie cafe in Salt Lake City, Utah. He had read my HuffPo piece about Why I Fucking Hate Starbucks, and wanted to share his story with me.

For the past 5 years, Just Add Coffee has been chugging along as a popular, well-liked hang out in SLC. 2 years ago, a Starbucks opened up right next to it. Instead of losing business and hanging up his hat, as many others have before him, Ed's business has actually enjoyed a spike in popularity. The story about The Little Indie Cafe That Could made the local ABC news, as did its controversial merchandise.

I'm not just writing this plug for Ed's cafe because he was cool enough to send me a box full of religiously irreverent t-shirts, bumper stickers, bracelets, and a cease and desist letter for using the image of The Angel Moroni in an ad (image copyrighted by the Church of Latter Day Saints). I'm writing this in hopes that if any of reading this are in SLC, you HAVE to get your ass over there and order up 10 lattes, pronto. And buy a t-shirt while you're at it. Because any independent business that operates in state which frowns on caffeine consumption, with a behemoth chain store RUN NEXT DOOR to it, deserves all the kudos it can get.

Here's to you, Ed. And here's to all of you nervous, jittery, conflicted BYU-ers who are lining up for your very first cup of coffee. Don't ask. Don't think. Just plunge wantonly into it's hot, steaming, illicit sweetness. And since you are now forever condemned to a lifetime of sin and blasphemy, you may as well go ahead and have premarital sex and a big glass of scotch on the rocks afterward, and maybe rob a bank on the way out, THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE IN THE EYES OF GOD.

Just do yourself a favor, kids. Your first time with coffee should never be at a Starbucks. Go here instead. And don't forget to tell your friends.

"Puff, Puff, Give"

2008-03-27T12:58:00.001-07:00

Anyone who has ever loved the 1995 cult classic, "Friday" can recite Smokey's immortal words, "Puff, puff, give. Puff, puff, give. You fuckin' up the rotation."

This time around, it is Hillary who is fucking up the rotation. If there was ever more a tenacious, stubborn, hang-in-there-while-the-chips-are-down politician - it would be our woman, Hillary. And oh, how I love her for it. When I was 16 and living in Singapore, my classmates were asked to each do book report on a political figure whom we admired most. Most girls at my (very Catholic, very Confucian) school chose Lee Kuan Yew. Others were inspired by the plight of Burmese dissident Aung Sun Suu Kyi. One unashamed Anglophile picked Winston Churchill. I was the lone schoolgirl who dove into All That Is Hillary Clinton with relish. So you see, my love for Hillary runs deep.

So deep, in fact, that I was willing to ignore the warning signs that would mark the beginning of her campaign's end. Nothing was going to get in my candidate's way. Not the exclusion of Florida and Michigan by the DNC, not her 10-state losing streak, not even her ridiculously nascent jabs at "always having to go first" during national debates. But the day that I read about her $5 million personal contribution to her own campaign, was when I got the distinct feeling that, in Smokey's parlance, shit be goin' down.

Shit is going down, and in a big way. When you have to fire your campaign manager midway through a very crucial race, because your coffers are hemorrhaging money - the words "JOHN SNOW" should start flashing in big, red, neon letters. Sound familiar? Hillary is doing in a microcosm, what Bush has been doing throughout his tenure: desperately salvaging her ailing campaign, by shooting into her own rank and file. If you're a Harry Potter geek like me, this is part where Harry finds out that he and Voldemort (Bush, natch) aren't as dissimilar as they think are. Both share a stubborn, systematic refusal to acknowledge inadequacies within their own shop. Both promote nepotism by delegating hands-on operations to their trusted, and untried, cronies. Both have lost substantial goodwill and political capital as a result.

It is time for we Democrats to take a long, hard look at our options. Is it mathematically possible for Hillary to pull ahead of Obama? Probably not. In order for her to clinch the nomination, she needs to lock up at least 60% of all the remaining votes in the last 10 states. Hillary's Big, Fat Anticharisma will unfortunately prevent this from happening. And that's the thing about Americans. When faced with a choice between an unlikeable, but supremely qualified candidate, and the guy that you can have beer and pizza with, we will always pick the second .

So, my friends, after much agonizing thought, I am jumping on the Obama bandwagon. It will be a bumpy ride. Nothing irritates me more than a lemming, and The Cult of Obama is chock full of them. But I am resolute. I will ignore the rants of loud-mouthed, slogan-spouting "Yes We Can"-ers. I will send Obama's nth You Tube video to my spam folder. I will resist the urge to punch the self-righteous Gap storegirl who likens Obama to "like, the next Martin Luther King, Jr." While the thought of having a first-term senator at the helm of our great nation scares me, the threat of another geriatric, war-mongering, Republican nut-job like McCain gives me instant explosive diarrhea. The longer this race drags on, the more likely we'll be stuck with more bloody years in Iraq. Hey, maybe a 100!

It's been great hanging with you, Hillary. I know that certain officers at the DNC love you. But sometimes, there's just not enough beer and weed to go around. Maybe in 2012. Time for you to puff, puff, and GIVE.

Ultra Music Fest - The Other Digital Revolution

2008-03-26T06:33:00.000-07:00

There are some things that Miamians dread more than paying taxes and blue balls. To name a few: being passed over for Homestead Exemptions, bad arroz con pollo, power outages during hurricane season, and the onslaught of out-of-towners descending upon Winter Music Conference.

For music lovers, however, the pain-in-the-ass factor of traffic congestion, no parking spots, and coked-out revelers is outweighed by the sheer awesomeness of WMC's closing party - the Ultra Music Festival. UMF 2008 marks the festival's 10th year of existence. This commemoration is by no means insignificant. After the First and Second Great Waves of Electronica (marked by the likes of Swedish Egil and Paul Van Dyk, respectively) so many insipid, big record-contract DJs jumped on board that music reviewers were all but writing Electronica's Obits. In the immortal words of Eminem, " You don't know me, you're too old/Let go, it's over, nobody listens to techno."

He's wrong. Somebody listens to techno. At least 50,000 people people, to be exact - and this number keeps growing. UMF has changed locations from South Beach, to Bayfront Park, to Bicentennial Park - all to accommodate the swelling masses that keep back for more D and B, more juice, more of those crazy blips and bleeps and Things That Make Us Go Hmm.

This year, UMF's organizers have outdone themselves again. The lineup reads like a techno-head's wet dream. Tiesto, wunderkind from Holland, will be headlining on Friday night. Joining him will be Carl Cox, M.A.N.D.Y, James Zabiela, and Justice. I have heard many acid-house and break purists decry the increasing encroachment of trip-hop and jungle techstep in UMF's recent lineup. My take is exactly the opposite. Where Carl Cox and James Zabiela have stagnated in their ceaseless, tiresome repetitions of a formulaic sure-thing, pioneers like Danny Tenaglia and Rabbit in the Moon have branched out onto exciting new ground. To whit, luminaries such as Paul van Dyk, Layo and Bushwacka! and Goldie will also be rounding out the electronica spectrum with their own brand of genius.

The jewel of UMF's lineup, however, is arguably BT. Like Malibu housewives who all flock to the three plastic surgeons, run-of-the-mill DJs are also guilty of drawing from the same tired, ever-shrinking pool of samples and re-samples. Who hasn't heard every incarnation of Cystal Method's "Don't Hold Back" and "Block Rockin' Beats" on network TV? Yet, BT manages to rise above this sea of mediocrity, periodically churning out truly inspired, multi-textured tracks.

In fact, for 90's Clinton-era kids like us, BT's continued maturation as an artist and performer mirrors our own gradual learning curve about Life. When "Ima" dropped in 1996, I was a freshman kid at college, blasting "Blue Skies" through my headphones and crossing the quad to get to my Criminology classes. When Tori Amos crooned "let's go/let's go/let's go/to this magic wondershow," I'd look up into the face of another gray California winter, scowl, and wonder WHAT THE FVCK I was going to do with double degrees in Liberal Bvllsh1t Drivel.

Then, 2001 rolled around. At that time, I had graduated from living off-campus in a ratty apartment, to rooming with Tequila Chica in a 2 bedroom rathole in Santa Ana. In between margs with her and writing mindless corporate datasheets, I would put on "Emotional Technology" and indulge in my elaborate pre-date rituals. This included belting out "simply being LOOOVED LOOVED LOOOOOVED" and asking Tequila Chica obsessively if she thought that my cheap Maybelline mascara would melt during a candlelit dinner. And lo, the crashes. Those horrible dates were so perfectly underscored by the moodiness of "Emotional Technology." I drove home one night with "Dark Heart Dawning" on repeat, in disbelief that Mr. King of Persia "wanted me to be a good, self-respecting girl, and come home to meet his mother because we were on our fourth date already." In between BT's melancholy cellos and soaring celestial melodies, I made some sort of devil's pact with myself to always stay single. Because I NEVER wanted to be the girl that guys brought home to mama. (By the way, if you're reading this, Sepehr, you can suck it. And I want my Pulp Fiction DVD back).

BT didn't come out with another album until 2006, when "This Binary Universe" was released as a score to That Heniously-Directed Halle Barry Movie. Here was BT's departure from the usual frenetic, synthetic sound that accompanied his earlier work. "Cop Killing" is one of the most hauntingly beautiful melodies I have ever heard, with bassy piano chords and chilly woodwinds. His use of the violin, flamenco guitar, and reversed beats on "Girls Kiss" sounded like an homage to staying still, not the cynical, I'm-Here-Today-And-Gone-Tomorrow wanderlust. Ironically enough, it was at Mynt, one of those ridiculously hard-to-get-into clubs on South Beach, when I realized that I was in love with my now-husband, The Marmot. The DJ put on "Job Hunt," and the irreverent xylophones played out over the sweetly melodic score, it reminded me of a lullaby. Something mellow and innocent that gave me peace, a hush deep down inside as I fell asleep in his arms. I went home uncharacteristically early that night and did a lot of thinking. I came to the conclusion that man, how cool was it that as a BT fan, his music had grown up along with me?

A Statement of the World We Live in Today

2008-03-20T12:34:00.000-07:00

Once in a while, I get curious. Who reads this blog? Besides my unfortunate, long-suffering friends, that is. According to the stat counter, 200-300 people read my nonsensical drivel every day. Que que? I don't promote this blog at all. Only a handful of close friends and acquaintances know about it. So, I took a closer look at the stats. I wanted to figure out who reads my blog, and how they found it.

My friends, up to 50% of my readers found my beloved blog, by doing the nastiest, baffling, and most potentially embarrassing Google searches ever.

Here's a list of strangers that stumbled on my blog, and their corresponding Google searches:

India: Google search "God is a Girl" (I thought he was an old, bearded man who lives in the sky and looks like John Lennon. But yeah, sure)

Snellville, GA, United States: Google Search "what baby tapeworms" (buddy, you need a doctor, pronto)

United Kingdom: Google Search "free porn boysfood" (go directly to their website, eejit)

Australia: Google Search "the happiest place on earth guitar chords" (something tells me this guy is really into Dungeons and Dragons)

Milwaukee, Wisconsin, United States: Google Search "why is spell St Paddys day" (why indeed?)

Gothenberg, Vastra Gostaland, Sweden: Google Search "hanna montana spell" (I TOLD YOU THAT KID WAS TROUBLE!)

France: Google Search "fuck my kid" (ooookkaaay. You need to be put away, you sick bastard)

Cochin, Kerala, India: Google search "pretty woman julia roberts blow job" (Ah, the famous piano scene. Blow jobs transcend even the most stalwart ethnic boundaries. What a warm and fuzzy notion)

Palmyra, United States: Google search "karaoke songs if you really can't sing" (You do karaoke BECAUSE you can't sing, dumbass. If you COULD sing, you would have a record contract already)

Indianapolis, IN, United States: Google search "bff letter" (just write from the heart, Little Suzie. Your bff will wind up stealing your junior high boyfriend and give him herpes, but you don't need to know that yet)

Dehli, India: Google search "look at uncovered girls" (How charming. Welcome home, honey! I got a little treat for you. You may uncover me tonight)

Charlottsville, VA, United States: Google search "BLOWJOB BY MOM" (Dude! Did you not get hugged enough as a child?)

New York, United States: Google Search "too young for hannah montana" (I hope to god this is a concerned parent, and not some creepy 13 year old would-be stalker)

Metz, Lorraine, France: Google Search "the MILF next door" (Excellent choice, sir. May I suggest "The MILF's Go To France" as an appetizer?)

New York, United States: Google search "how white am i quiz" (I don't know, but my guess is, you're pretty fucking lame)

Sacramento, California, United States: Google search "bert and ernie blowjob" (You must have had a field day at Avenue Q)

Langerado '08 - It's a Wrap!

2008-03-12T10:17:00.002-07:00

Coming home from Langerado, is like telling Charlie that his beloved Chocolate Factory has shut down for the rest of the year. For 3 blissful days, my friends and I were steeped in the some of the best music that the world had to offer. Running from set to set brought on feelings of disbelief. "You mean, I get to hear MORE good music?" Oh yes, young grashopper. You do.

Day 3 saw us waking from a haze and making RV scrambled eggs. RV eggs are the oh-so classy alternative to regular scrambled eggs, the only difference being that the portions are stretched by adding plenty of milk to feed the many hungry chillun. After breakfast, Arrested Development was first on our list. In the interest of self-disclosure, I haven't owned an Arrested Development record since I was a Catholic schoolgirl and living in Singapore, and Speech and Headliner were worth going to the contraband record guy for. They kicked off their positive, Afrocentic set with the very apt "Lovely Day." One Love and Monto Eshe's voices were as mellow and strong as ever. By the time they got to "Mr Wendell." the crowd had tripled in size, and even the hardcore punks were caught up in their message of universal peace and empowerment.

My friends, Guitar Hero and The Fiery Redhead, were adamant about seeing The Wailers perform. I only decided to stick around for 10 minutes, because The Wailers play at Miami's Marley Fest almost yearly. Turns out that this was time well spent, because That Crazy Orthodox Jew, Matisyahu, made a cameo appearance. As hundreds of delightful fans swooned in their Birks and hemp gear, Matisyahu backed up Elan in "No Woman, No Cry." And KILLED it. I overheard one very old Rasta guy tell his hippie paramour that "de son, he dey sing better than his fambly. True, sir!" Bob Marley died before I was born, but it was clear that his amazing legacy lives on through his music.

Lunchtime brought with it a dizzying array of food choices. I wasn't too impressed with the Langerado vendors. We made sure to hit up as many of them as humanly possible. We waited till we were nearly falling over from hunger. We even gave ourselves a raging case of the munchies, but no avail - the offerings were a heartbeat away from airplane fly crap. The Thai vegetarian curry was congealed rice in coconut milk. The chicken on a stick was reconstituted meat, and severely undercooked. The chicken gyro smelled like a 13 year old, unwashed pitbull. Out of the entire festival, the only edible item was the $7 pizza slice, which we devoured with considerable resentment. Because hey, for $2.10, a slice on any random NYC street corner costs less and tastes better.

Stuffed with sub-par mozzarrella, we headed caught us some Citizen Cope. We stayed just long enough to catch Clarence Greenwood's "Sideways" and "If There's Love" - both of them insanely sweet melodies about falling in love and going sideways, whichever comes first. Ben Folds played directly after him. Ben Folds of the genius piano key-pounding fingers and that plaintive, wailing voice, stretched out over soaring guitar chords. His rendition of "The Luckiest" made me wanna slap my mama upside the head. THAT'S how good he sounded.

Thievery Corporation were likewise spectacular, with guest vocalists making their appearance in "Un Simple Histoire" and "Sol Tapado." The high point of their set, however, was during "Satya Shitvum Sundaram," when a female vocalist and her accompanying snake-hipped dancer whipped the crowd into a barely contained erotic frenzy. I didn't recognize a lot of their newer stuff, and was pleased to discover that they had branched out into more afro-funk material, as opposed to just bossa-nova and acid jazz.

Then, at 11:30PM, 49 degrees Fahrenheit - 6 good friends waited in silent anticipation for REM to take the stage. REM has always had a special place in my heart. "Losing My Religion" perfectly encapsulated my teen angst years. My friends and I would stop, rewind, and playback certain verses on our Phillips tape decks. We were misunderstood! Disenfranchised! Marginalized! And only Michael Stipe KNEW HOW MUCH WE SUBURBAN GIRLS SUFFERED. I realize now that this was complete bvllsh!t. "Losing My Religion" was about Stipe learning how to play the mandolin, and losing his temper (or in Southern parlance, his "religion") in the process. Gee, thanks, Michael Stipe. Your song sent me down a bobsled of pouty teenage insolence, and a major in Social Ecology, but that's ok. You make amazing music.

Clad in a green Obama shirt ("Where did he get that dope shirt?" I heard one guy ask), Stipe launched straight into "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" and "At My Most Beautiful." "Electrolite" was belted out with barely restrained emotional anguish, and "Supernatural Superserious" was...Supercool. In short, their sound was as powerful as I had ever heard it. It is a wonder that they have stayed fresh, cutting-edge, and relevant throughout the years, without losing an ounce of their trademark sardonic irrelevance. The fact that I was singing the same songs as a 29 year old made me realize that their unique sound had aged beautifully. As I burrowed into The Marmot's arms for warmth, I hoped that we all would as well.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being at Langerado

2008-03-12T10:17:00.001-07:00

Saturday, March 8th, 4:06AM

I can't sleep. Outside, in the hushed wilderness of the Seminole National Park, all is quiet. By 4 A.M, even the critters in the Everglades have gone to bed. But not our next door neighbor. Noooosir. In the northwest quadrant of the designated RV parking lot for Langerado, the RV next to ours seems to be housing a domestic dispute of sorts. As it appears, this dispute involves the hapless girlfriend, who is accusing her boyfriend of being a "heartless a$$hole who locked her out (of the RV) for 4 hours." The latter is slinging back with, "I was doing you a favor, you drunk ***!"

Ah, the quiet gentility of RV living.

As with all journeys, the trek from Miami to the Langerado Music Festival in the Everglades came with it's Special Kind of Crazy. To tell the story about how we got there would fill up a whole other blog, one involving our friend, the Sneaker Pimp, taking an accidental gasoline bath at the gas station, and then getting embroiled in an hour long pissing match with a surly work associate on her cell phone, while the rest of us weighed in unhelpfully. Then, there was the weather. Langerado nightswere C-O-L-D, with nightly averages dipping into the low 50s. All around me, skinny alfafa-fed hippies are huddling together, trying to stay warm despite the frost.

But, challenges be damned. We came for the music. And the music, my friends, is what made this adventure so worthwhile.

Day 1 of Langerado. We pulled up just in time to catch Matt Pond P.A. At the Chickee Hut in the far back section of Langerado, lead singer Matt Pond was in rare form, doling out his mantra of self-awareness in his trademark witticisms, "You should not sound like they do/You should want to sound like you." His trademark plaintive wailing was in full effect, as scores of music revelers nodded their heads in silent agreement. In between sets, I took stock of the Langerado crowd. Overdone piercings and tattoos, check. Dreadlocked hippies smelling of patchouli and bong water, check. Glam nerds, sweating bullets in tweed and corduroy, check. All the usual suspects were present, except....something was different about this Langerado. I saw more couples. I saw families with little kids in tow, sitting high up on their parent's shoulders, enjoying the music through ear plugs. I saw scores of frat boys with plastic bottles of Bud, one with a shirt that said, "Delta Upsilon - Better Fathers, Better Husband, Better Men." I saw beer guts, FUPAs, and too-tight suburban mommy jeans everywhere. It was official. Middle America had arrived.

At the 311 stage, Middle America was out in full force. 311, itself a Midwest band (bright eyed and corn fed in Omaha, natch) attracted scores of college coeds and 30-something yuppies. They were surprisingly good. Nick Hexum's voice, over-produced and under-emotive on their albums, had a steely, raw edge to it that had the entire crowd on their feet, cheering. During their cover of The Cure's "Love Song," I realized that two days ago, power chords in a Cure song would have been deemed blasphemy. But 311 made it work. "Beautiful Disaster's" stuttering guitar riffs had me dancing while in line at the Port-A-Potty, while "Amber's" homage to surf rock sent me back to nights around beach bonfires in So. Cal. Would I call myself a 311 fan? No. But they definitely don't suck live.

I spent the rest of the day wandering around the sprawling grounds. It took me on average of 10 minutes to get from one stage to another. With a total of 5 operational stages, hundreds of on-site staff, and 30,000 attendees, the sheer expanse of Langerado was downright intimidating. We knew that the Beastie Boys set was going to be slammed, so we didn't even bother with staking out a primo spot. More to the point, some of us were wondering if the Beastie Boys could still cut it. You know, being middle-aged, and all. How could they still be relevant, when License to Ill dropped more than 20 years ago? As it happens, not even the passage of time could stifle their frenzied Brooklyn energy. Mike D, Ad Rock, and MCA hopped around on stage like they were still 16 year old boys performing at their buddy's bar mitzvah. "Can't Won't Don't Stop" had the crowd chanting in unison, while "Intergalactic" had the Marmot and me doing synchronized kung fu kicks. Their set culminated with "Sabotage," the sheer brilliance of which had us screaming like it was the Second Coming of the Lord. At that point, it didn't matter that we were wet, exhausted, and stoned out of our minds. Our walk back to the RV went something like this:

The Marmot: DUUUDE!!!

Me: That was AWESOME!!!

Sneaker Pimp: So. Fucking. Awesome.

Fiery Redhead: Did you see Mike D's salt and pepper hair?

The Marmot: DUUUDE!!!

Such as it is when one fights for her right to party.

Langerado - The Happiest Place On Earth

2008-02-27T19:11:00.000-08:00

Bring on the heat, the crowds, the bugs, the mud. Stock up on beer and wet naps. Roll out the RV. Leave your Crackberry at home. Langerado is here.

This year's three day live music extravaganza has switched locales from it's original Markham Park location, to the Big Cypress Indian Reservation. The only way to access the Big Cypress Reservation is via Alligator Alley. Which means this - we will be in Butt Fucking Nowhere. Now, as far as I'm concerned, Butt Fucking Nowhere is an awesome a place as any to have a live music fest. Where I come from in Southern California, any music fest where you're not placed in mortal danger of dehydration or snake bites, is not a music fest worth it's salt. For this fact alone, I am eagerly anticipating the hair-raising, awe-inspiring, sensory overloading audio orgasm that is Langerado 2008.

Of course, I cannot speak of this exciting sojourn, without making mention of my fellow travelers. There will be 4 other people vigorously shedding their 9-5 corporate face masks along with me. They are: my husband, The Marmot; my ad exec friend, The Fiery Redhead; her boyfriend, Guitar Hero, and fellow blogger, The Sneaker Pimp. Their musical tastes run the gamut from indie rock, to 80's cheese glam, to hip hop, emo and world music. Fortunately, this year's Langerado lineup promises something for everybody. That's right - even if all you listen to are Billboard chart toppers and "best of" mixes, the Beastie Boys and REM will still get you moving.

Thievery Corporation will also be there, and I am dying, waiting, SALIVATING for them to play tracks off their latest album, "The Cosmic Game." Ever since wunderkinds Rob Garza and Eric Hilton teamed up, my life has become a Brazilian bossa-nova soundtrack, infused with moody female songstresses. Well, not really, but that's how good their newest tracks are. I caught a performance featuring Thievery Corporation, playing in conjunction with the Miami-based New World Symphony, and the effect was nothing short of astounding. Over the years, Thievery Corp has gotten progressively more experimental with adding orchestral textures to their songs. Their massive following attests to how accessible and moving this format is.

Matisyahu, another fusion artiste, will be performing his signature medley of reggae and Hasidic Judaism. No newcomer to the spirit of Langerado, Matisyahu's performance at last year's show ended on a particularly high note. Against the backdrop of a setting sun, Matisyahu hurled out "King Without a Crown" with searing veracity, then went straight into a spirited, 10 minute horah with some audience members. That was the moment when my friends and I looked at each other and nodded silently, eyes slitty through a haze of a weed. Every young person who feels music in his soul, yearns to share this connection with others. Matisyahu is that person, so seeing him perform makes you want to, well, horah it out with a complete stranger. His latest album 'Youth" is a little more dancehall reggae oriented.The rousing exhalations to God have not disappeared. Rather, they are subsumed beneath a salute to the revolutionary spirit of young people. "What I'm Fighting For" is the perfect encapsulation of this rallying cry.

I saved the best for last: Matt Pond P.A.

"Several Arrows Later" was released in October 2005, but I was blissfully unaware of their existence until The Marmot and I first started dating. He would plug in his iPod, crank up the speakers, and launch into Just How Cool This Fucking Band Is. It took a while for the songs to grow on me. Some of the orchestral instruments were overbearing, such as the violins in "It Is Safe" and the cellos in "From Debris". Pond's signature classic, "The Moviegoer," was synthetic and whiny, I felt. But one morning, over eggs and the New York Times, "Halloween" rang in from the living room. And that was when I caught on to the raw, emotionally charged wonder of Pond's voice. His scathing criticism of pop culture ("If you don't know or care you'll be alright/I heard it's modern to be stupid/You don't need to talk to look good.") is laid out over gentle hooks and tender melodic swells. There is no magic formula to this band's success - just a very raw, organic indie sound with lyrics that tug at your heart strings. Think Weezer, minus the power chords and nerd glasses. Two years later, I wound up marrying The Marmot. I wonder if he knows that Matt Pond P.A. probably had something to do with it. They are easily my most anticipated band of Langerado 2008.

Will Ani di Franco freak out, as she always does? Will Les Claypool indulge in our love for all things retro, and play classic Primus? Will Ozomatli go heavy on the cumbia, and lighter on the dub? Who the *** knows. You'll just have to keep reading this blog.

The Informed Voter's Glossary of Terms - Your Guide to the 2008 Election!

2008-02-19T06:33:00.000-08:00

Ahoy, good citizens! Are you completely baffled as to which candidate to pick? Confused about the complex terminology that the media keeps throwing around? Well, fear no more. Your friend Bev is here to help guide you through the 2008 Presidential election.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

Asian: Individual of East Asian descent, also a synonym for "Hillary donor."

American dollar: Currency of the United States of America. Has gained recent acceptance for use as door stoppers, cleaning rags, and toilet paper.

Anti-charisma: Social disability resulting in massive dislike or ridicule by one's peers. Well known sufferers include running back Ricky Williams, Voldemort, and Hillary Clinton.

Black: The new black

Budget: Statement of income and liabilities over a fiscal period. In the past 7 years, usually accompanied by lots of zeros and red ink.

Bush-itis: Terrifying disease, causing sufferers extreme stupidity, poverty, ignorance, and in extreme cases, loss of limbs. Symptoms may last up to 8 years, but can usually be alleviated by moving to Canada.

Carte Blanche: (French) The absolute freedom of a President to make believe that invading another country, or spending taxpayer's money, is much like playing with his choo-choo trains (see "Earmark").

Civil liberties: Archaic, seldom-used of rule of law. Stems from the notion that individuals have certain inalienable rights as accorded to them by the United States Constitution. Examples include: the right to free speech, the right to privacy, and protection from government tyranny (see "Human rights").

Chelsea: Individual who is exploited for the political gain of another (see also "Pimped out").

Cindy: Common name given to female American babies. Also the name of John McCain's wife (see "MILF" and "Cougar")

Cougar: Middle-aged woman who wears too-tight Juicy sweatsuits, and is attractive in that jaded, ageing-stripper, Mrs Robinson kind of way (see "Cindy" and "MILF).

Democrat: Individual who is characterized by his affiliation to the Democratic Party platform. Qualities include constant whining, cannibalism, eating one's young, and an inability to organize.

Earmark: To set aside money in one's budget for buying new flight suits, or building big, shiny fences so that the Mexicans can't get in to mow your grass.

Harvard MBA: Credential earned by President George W. Bush, responsible for passing economically sound bills, such as the $471 billion defense measure.

Hill-Billy: Refers to a voter who missed his Clinton-era years so much, that he voted for Hillary in the primaries.

Human rights: The indisputable right of an individual to eat at McDonald's, drink coffee at Starbucks, and embrace democracy by having bombs dropped on him (see "Civil liberties").

McCain: Probable Republican nominee for the President of the United States. Credited with the Beach Boys-inspired pro-war anthem, "Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb Iran."

MILF: (acronym) Mom I'd Like to Fuck (see "Cindy" and "Cougar).

Obama-rama: Slang term for nationwide phenomenon. Symptoms include glassy eyes and slightly crazed optimism in face of impending disaster.

Oprah-ximate: Statistical term referring to the spike in a politician's popularity after receiving an endorsement from Oprah Winfrey.

Pimped out: Urban slang term. Refers to (a) embellishing one's personal belongings for the purpose of inclusion in MTV Cribs; (b) a person who exploits another for her own political gain (see "Chelsea").

Plagiarism: To accuse another candidate of intellectual dishonesty, because you are really, really sick of being the smelly kid that no one wants to play with.

Filibuster: Technical term for a napping Democratic Senator.

Fire it Up: Unofficial Obama campaign slogan, used a symbol of renewed vigor. Also a colloquial term popularized by stoners. Refers to the act of lighting up a pipe, in order to imbibe illicit drugs such as marijuana.

First-term senator: The last political rung to the Office of the President of the United States.

Florida: Fourth most populous state in the U.S. Of little consequence to national affairs, except during Spring Break and the Presidential elections.

I Got A Crush On Obama: Love song to presidential candiate Barack Obama, made popular on Youtube. Proof of Obama's success in reaching out to the New Jersey Puerto Rican stripper voting bloc.

Independent: Individual who votes based on issues, rather than party affiliation. List of Independent luminaries include: Gary Coleman, Ralph Nader, and Kinky Friedman.

Iraq: Country in the Middle-East rich with untapped oil reserves. Also a synonym for a smoke screen, or decoy directive for a more sinister operation, such as tapping said oil reserves.

Liberal: Derogatory term. Refers to a person who reads "The Nation" and likes having abortions and having sex with trees.

Republican: Derogatory term. Refers to that old, creepy guy next door who likes to wear slightly dirty, camel-colored Members Only jackets, and still wants you to sit on his knee, "just like the old days." (see "McCain").

Yes We Can: Rallying cry for Obama supporters. Convenient super-philosophy to embody the vehicle of almost any supporter's hopes.

The Audacity of Cool

2008-02-13T09:51:00.001-08:00

To paraphrase Democratic candidate Barack Obama, "We Want Change." In response to which Former President Bill Clinton might say, "It depends on what the meaning of 'is' is." Meaning, who are the "we's" that want change, and what kind of change is it that these separate "we's" want?

This is no simple question. Since Obama and Clinton first entered the Great Campaign Derby, us Democrats have been poring over the betting board, discussing spreads and dividends, calling on every expert in sight to weigh in. Clinton - no filly herself, and a seasoned political challenger, faces the distinct disadvantage of, well, not being liked. Obama - the young steed from Chicago, has emerged as a front-runner for the first time. Of course, there are those damning whispers that Obama is a novice, a "roughie," and has not been around the block enough. October is looming, the stakes are getting higher, and both challengers are in a dead heat.

As it is at the horse races, so it shall be with the 2008 Presidential Election. Us fractious, quarrelsome, unable-to-get-our-shit-together Democrats are going to resort to the most sordid of American traits. We are going to pick the crowd favorite. The horse with the funnier name. The one with more mass appeal. The guy that we think we'd enjoy having a beer and playing darts with. The one who peppers his impassioned speeches with universally likable concepts, such as "Hope" and "Change." Unfortunately for Clinton, the Big Betting Board is starting to favor Obama. And that is a crying shame.

In the interest of self-disclosure, I am a Clinton supporter. I am not, however, an avowed Clinton supporter, and this is precisely what her campaign lacks - scores of die-hard Hillary-ites, enough to get her elected. In spite of her clearly articulated platform, her political pedigree, and her 8 years of White House experience, Clinton suffers from a severe case of anti-charisma. While this is an regrettable hangover from her fat-kid-in-the-corner days a new First Lady, with the Tammy Wynette and cookie-baking faux paux, Clinton's pervasive aura of uncool is costing her the election.

Us pundits? After 8 years of Bush's Bible-And-A-Smirk routine, we are hungry for Cool. We are dying for Cool. When a good looking, young steed like Obama trots up, with his pickup basketball skills and his sexy timbre, plus a Grammy-winning audio book, it is all too easy to start feting him as our Grand New Hope. It is all too easy to stop thinking critically, and cave in to the seductive notion of the firebrand, the revolutionary, the clean slate. As the race for the Democratic candidacy has intensified these past few months, I have watched one friend after another, climb aboard the Obama bandwagon, spouting aphorisms like "Yes, We Can" and "Fire It Up." Yet, while I too yearn for inspiration and revolution, while I have a soft spot in my heart for MLK-style speeches, this roar that gets louder every day makes me uncomfortable. Our propensity to hang on to catch phrases and soft-focus videos smacks of a lynch mob mentality. The kind that usually comes attached to a " 9/11 - Love Bush, Kill Arabs" redneck. We laughed at those Bushies, remember? Well, guess what my friends. We might be guilty of the same crime. The crime of not thinking critically.

When this race comes to a head on March 4, my fervent wish is this:

I hope we have it in us to put aside cool. I hope we dispense with this idiotic need to buddy up with our President, to feel as if he is "one of us." I hope we look past the Scarlett Johansson endorsements and the youtube videos exhalting us to embrace a nebulous, yet-unexplained definition of "change." Forget the President-As-Everyman fantasy. Our country is slipping into a recession, our trade deficit is at an all-time high, and our foreign policy has turned into a bad Dr. Seuss nightmare. To fix this, we need more than cool. We need tenaciousness, political savvy, and White House experience. We need to come to terms with the fact that our country cannot afford the blunders of a novice. We need a President who has the clout, the track record and the know-how. And for that, we don't need to like her personality.

Oops, was that a Freudian slip?

Happy New Year to Me

2008-02-07T05:42:00.000-08:00

Sung to the tune of "Happy Birthday"

Happy New Year to me
(Asian population - 0.04% on Miami Beach, according to Wiki)

Happy New Year to me
(No more red packets from mom and dad - I went and got married)

Happy New Year to me
(I could party it up with dirty old men at the Mandarin's "Chinese New Year" party for $125 per head!)

Happy New Year to me
(Is it 4706, 5768, or 2008?)

Why I Fucking Hate Starbucks

2007-11-27T10:30:00.000-08:00

After all these years, I've reached a very important conclusion: I'm a simple kind of girl. I like my produce plain and unadorned. Most days, I only wear sunblock and lipgloss. I have never owned a blow dryer. I truly believe that sunshine and a long walk does more for your spirits than any self-help book.

This, I suspect, is why I hate Starbucks. Oh, don't get me wrong. 3 out of 7 days of the week, you will probably find me at a Starbucks. I wish I could be more militant about it, and be one of those people brews their tea at home to bring to work. But I don't. I'm lazy. And Starbucks is so ubiquitous. Which brings me to my first point:

1. Number of branches
There are 7 (count them, 7) Starbucks on South Beach. Do you know how small South Beach is? You can never have a secret hookup with someone and not run into them at your gym thirty minutes later. I know all the homeless people by their smells. Gossip travels at the speed of light. THAT'S how small it is. So why are there 3 Starbucks on Lincoln Rd alone? Is it because we have all suddenly developed a taste for Javanese coffee roasts? No, my friends. It's called being a "loss leader." Starbucks doesn't give a shit whether they make money or not, because this is a publicly traded company with deep, deep pockets. Their only goal is to grow and expand as quickly as possible, so that eventually all mom and pop businesses get edged out of market share. The kicker is, the bigger something gets, the shittier the quality becomes. Like McDonalds. Which brings me to my next point.

2. Quality
A rose by any other name doth smell as sweet. Especially if you're on the Starbucks marketing team. Brazil Ipanema Bourbon? Joya del Dia? Guatemala Casi Cielo? Are you fucking kidding me, people? Your coffee SUCKS. The best coffee that I have ever had was at a lowly hawker stall in Singapore. It was rich, black and gleaming. It smelled full-bodied and robust, and it woke your ass up at 6AM , a full-on caffeine extravaganza. And it was called, simply, "coffee." Your Mocha Sanani Cha-cha-la-la by comparison, tastes like a cross between drain cleaner and flat Pepsi. The fact that you are exploiting Third World Countries and militia-led countries to harvest cheap beans doesn't make my cuppa joe taste any better.

3. Music
Enough with the lesbian folk singers and the Miles Davis already. We get it! We, your target audience, are supposed to be sophisticated and discerning connoisseurs of world music. So why is that that every time I walk in, some Jewel rip-off is warbling in the distance? Did anyone at the mothership do their market segmentation research? Are you guys aware that Miami is 80% Latin, and that you'd be better off playing Suenelo Sound System or at the very least, classic Celia Cruz? Must you subject the entire world to what sounds like the Dawson's Creek soundtrack? I have news for you - THERE ARE NO WHITE PEOPLE IN MIAMI. THEY HAVE ALL FLED TO BROWARD.

4. Pretentiousness
Of all the things that piss me off most, being pretentious tops the list. This is why it irks me to no end, when people do things like perfume their dogs and bring them to pet yoga. That's called "being an asshole." On this note, the "The Way I See It" ad campaign has raised Starbucks' asshole-ness to an unprecedented level. It is bad enough that self-help gurus and life coaches clog the airwaves. Must we now suffer the travesty of having dimestore philosophy on our coffee cups? And it's a "medium" chamomile tea, not a "Grande." You're headquartered in Seattle, not Florence. Oh, and you want me to TIP YOU for this holy annoyance? No thanks. Give me my change, all of it. The next time I'm feeling introspective and want to read someone else's rhetoric, I'll crack open my copy of Hume.

Hannah Montana, Uncovered

2007-11-26T07:31:00.001-08:00

I have a new niece. She's 6 and adorable, and loves writing me little notes, peppered with lipstick kisses, rainbows, and smiley faces. I was starting to wonder if I would ever receive anything more substantial from her, when this popped up in my inbox today:

=================================
> From: xxxxx@hotmail.com
> To: xxxxx@hotmail.com
> Subject:
> Date: Sun, 25 Nov 2007 11:19:39 -0500
>
> high school muscal diary. high school mucscal note book.
> hannah montana perfume. hillary duff make up. hannah montana book
> from xxxxx
=================================

Of course. The Hanukkah Wish List. How could I forget?

The only problem was - I had no idea who the hell Hannah Montana was. Hannah MONTANA? Isn't there a tried and tested formula for creating your stripper name? Your middle name is your first name, followed by the town in which you grew up?

I Googled her on a lark and this is what popped up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hannah_Montana

According to Wiki, "the series focuses on Miley Stewart (played by Miley Cyrus), who lives a double life as an average teenage girl at school during the day and a famous pop singer, Hannah Montana, at night, concealing her real identity from the public other than her close friends and family."

What the?! Does this make sense to any of you? Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, and Jessica Simpson were all Mouseketeers by the time they reached junior high, and they sure as shit did not hide conceal" their true identity from the public." It's not as if Hannah Montana needs to maintain an air of mystery. She isn't fighting crime undercover, the way Spidey and Superman would. There is only one explanation. The girl be dippin' for dollas. And my little niece wants a be-glittered notebook with her strutting her stuff on the cover? I think not.

On the other hand. I do want to make her happy, so perhaps I'll get her the other item on her wish list. The High School Musical notebook. High School Musical was, of course, placed under intense media scrutiny when co-stars Vanessa Hudgens took a naughty picture of herself for then boyfriend, Zach Ephron. She has since apologized to Disney for the indiscretion.

It's disturbing, really, how little girls are so overtly sexualized at such a young age. The Mattel Machine has created demand for products aimed at 5, 6 year old girls by engineering a subculture of childlike sexual sophistication. The problem is, calculated, methodical sexuality is something for women, not girls who still in elementary school. There is a time and a place to be a 'hobag, and let's just say it's, oh, all four years of high school, college and throughout most of your adult life?

I really want to hand her a copy of "The Backlash", but I know that won't cut it. Maybe I need to get her into Dora the Explorer (too young, too cartoon-ey, shitty bowl haircut) or Erykah Bahdu (too esoteric, and who the fuck is Tyrone?). What's the answer? Maybe I'll get her a Hannah Montana notebook, but tell her that we should get creative. Fill up it's pages with our story. Create another female character that not only sings and looks pretty, but is smart and solves crimes and travels the world to camp out with the natives. In sequins and makeup if she has to. Maybe that's the answer.

Here's to hoping. Hoping that this holiday season, little girls all over the world find inspiration, not in the tinsel and glitter, or in crowded malls and stores, but within their own hearts. And if they can kick butt and look cute along the way, even better.

Things I am Grateful for this Thanksgiving

2007-11-21T13:35:00.001-08:00

1. I was mistaken for Lucy Liu only three times this year.
2. Tu Pac didn't put out another posthumous album.
3. Figuring out a foolproof method of crashing the Standard Spa.
4. www.boysfood.com
5. Barely getting by in Miami without learning Spanish.
6. I was mistaken for that Asian transvestite at Funkshion only once this year.
7. I make weird animal clicking noises at my fiance and he still wants to marry me.
8. My bridesmaids were subjected to 32 degree weather during my bachelorette hiking trip, and none of them bitch slapped me.
9. That scab on my scalp finally went away, after 8 years of glorious absentminded picking.
10. Only 425 till Bush is out of office.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!!

Proud to be an American

2007-11-20T10:10:00.001-08:00

These days, we seldom buy American.

We cruise around town in our German and Japanese cars. Attend meetings in expensively tailored Italian suits. Boot up and tune in with laptops that were conceived of and put together by foreign labor. Night out on the town at a swanky club? It's Grey Goose vodka, not provincial Bud Light. Perhaps the cluster fuck that is the Bush administration has something to do with this. Where the American flag waved high and proud, post 9/11, American tourists are now sticking Canadian flag decals on their backpacks. In the political sandbox that is the United Nations, we have become the weird fat kid that nobody wants to play with.

It is time to regain our lost valor. To stand tall again, as our forefathers once did. We have a reason. Something to hang our hat on. My friends, it is time to recognize that American porn is the best thing that has ever happened to the world.

Oh, we've come a long way from our sepia-tone, 70's style disco bush days. Where production quality was abominable, and we were subjected to the torture of unnecessarily protracted conversations between porn stars. "Sally, please come in here for some dick-tation." Raised eyebrow. Cue ridiculous bow-chicka-bow-bow soundtrack.

Those mom and pop, halcyon days of black market porn are over. The Americans have emerged as a formidable, well-oiled superpower in the international porn arena. Forget dominating the porn world, if it weren't for a couple of enterprising guys with their home videos, the porn industry would never have come to fruition. How do we kick so much ass? By the employing the time-honored American principles of innovation and hard work.

It was us Americans that pioneered the three key ingredients that make a successful porn. The over sized boob job, the penetration close-up, and the money shot. Every good porn worth it's salt has these three elements, otherwise you're better off with your mommy's copy of "Driving Miss Daisy." We have taken this formula and made magic with it. The sheer entrepreneurial genius of Bang Bros, In the VIP, and MILF Hunter (all homegrown Miami talent, thank you very much) has resulted in a slew of copycat ventures. In this respect, we trump other countries yet again. While other porn actresses are pale, untoned, and vaguely resemble younger versions of Meryl Streep, our porn stars could bounce a quarter off their abs, and are then air brushed to within an inch of their lives. Try telling that to the English. I ventured out into foreign porn territory a few times. Those experiences have scarred me for life.

German porn, for starters, is amusingly fixated on two themes - the shaisa (shit) experience, and the incestuous father-daughter relationship. Both capers are usually conducted with that same intense, studious glare that every Deiter I have worked with brings to the office. "Nein lieber, macht schnell." Uh, no thanks. A gorgeous Beemer 7 might turn my head, but you'll never catch me with a copy of Germany's finest shaisa star.

English porn is a crap shoot. It can sometimes be delightfully quick witted and funny, what with the national propensity for dry humor and double entendres. An English professor at Duke, for example, would relish the irony of doggy-style sex with the secretary on the same table with a copy of "The Remains of the Day." On the other hand, English porn actresses are old and stodgy, and their porn actors have classic Manchester United yob beer bellies. The accent that works so well for Shakespear's sonnets, is awful for porn. "Wank me, you dirty slag! Shag me in me bum!" just...isn't sexy.

In the oyster smorgasbord of disturbing adult videos, however, nothing beats Japanese porn. The highly ordered, meticulously planned Japanese indulge in an almost nationalistic obsession with rape sex. Their female porn stars resemble 12 year old boys, and a good percentage of their male porn actors are over 60. Hentai, the anime version of porn, enjoys a steady following among schoolgirls and businessmen alike. Trippy shit, this. I sat through a full-length hentai feature once, and at one point, both aliens and machines alike were deployed in the deflowering of a girl. For weeks after, I exercised extreme caution while approaching my coffee maker.

So you see, us Yanks have plenty with which to be proud. Not only do we consistently set the gold standard for prime masturbatory material, we have revolutionized the mechanism by which porn is distributed. From dingy, poorly lit XXX-rated theaters, to VHS, to DVDs, we are now able to access porn via the Internet. Not ready to part with your credit card? No problem. Thanks to advertising sponsorships, you can now get near full-length porn at sites like boysfood.com .

What this speaks to is the last great democratization of sexual values. Does bondage turn you on? Pantyhose? What about a clown fetish? The fact that all these different genres are available for free, speaks a heightened awareness of the need for healthy sexual outlets. By demystifying what really goes on in people's fantasy worlds, we emerge as savvier consumers, better educated individuals. Today, we are less fearful of what we don't know. Such empowerment could only happen in an environment that encourages free flowing information exchange. Without censorship, and without the social recrimination. Such a revolution could only happen here, in the States.

Support our great nation.

BUY AMERICAN PORN.

You Can't Spell "Narcissism" Without "I"

2007-10-25T06:55:00.000-07:00

My beloved Mac is screwed up. The "i" letter key feels weird to the touch, and it takes several strikes of my finger before "i" finally appears on screen. This of course begs the question, I wonder what it says about me, that the first letter to wear out on my keyboard is "i."

Maybe it means I am a self-obsessed douchebag narcissist.

Of course, with the store warranty, this at least makes me a responsible self-obsessed douchebag narcissist.

Checklist for Yom Kippur

2007-09-20T21:36:00.000-07:00

Erev Yom Kippur

Before sundown:

1. Make sure dress is of a properly somber color. God is extra serious today. You should be too.

2. Polish engagement ring to make sure that it shines as brilliantly as possible. It will be on full display. Remember - a cleaner ring is a bigger ring.

3. Book mani/pedi. Be sure to tell the manicurist you want the "I am Not a Stripper French Manicure."

4. Stock up on lots of DVDs and books. In 2 hours, your blood sugar levels will plummet. You will want to fucking kill each other, and thus need plenty of distraction.

After sundown:

1. Apply lipstick. Blot. Apply sheer coat of powder. Reapply lipstick. You are now ready to be kissed by 10,000 acquaintances with weird breath. No, wait. That's you with the weird breath.

2. Pop breath mint.

3. Wrap shawl around torso, as air conditioning is going full blast right now, and your nipples are no doubt fully erect and visible.

4. Help your man inspect his yarmulke for signs of grease and dandruff.

5. Stop trying to decipher how much Yo-yo Ma's going rate is for Kol Nidre.

6. Stop staring at the 16 year old's boob job. This is a day for seeking forgiveness, dammit.

7. Realize that the 16 year old is a dude, and that he has man boobs. Seriously ponder if you are now beyond all redemption.

8. Breath smells weird. Pop another breath mint.

9. Discreetly take out pen and NY Times crossword puzzle

10. Nudge your man awake when his drooling and snoring becomes too apparent.

11. Both of your breaths smell like Soviet-era bathroom stalls. Resolve to not kiss for the next 24 hours.

Yom Kippur

Sunrise:

1. Wake up feeling ravenous. Breath smells like a cat shat in your mouth. Swallow entire can of breath mints. Feel 100% better because of sudden sugar rush.

2. Blood sugar level plummets suddenly.

3. If in room with significant other and sharp objects, leave premises immediately, as you are likely to inflict bodily harm.

4. Discover that being starved and light headed feels almost like being stoned, except munchies are not allowed. Listen to Pink Floyd and The Beatles on repeat.

5. Become very, very depressed.

Sundown:

1. Blood sugar levels now dangerously low. Bring economy pack of breath mints. Suck on them continuously for extra calories.

2. Refrain from wondering about the sex lives of old people. You are here on serious forgiveness type business.

3. Wrap shawl around torso asap, as the old people are now staring at your too-cold pointy nipples.

4. Hunger level at maximum. Trip hardcore on all the pretty temple lights.

5. Refrain from asking significant other to "talk me down, man, talk me down."

6. Shofar sounds. Try not to cry tears of joy.

6. Take dinner rolls out of purse. Share bounty with significant other.

7. Reflect on world and state of affairs, like how you both are so much closer now, having suffered through a famine together.

The Name Game

2007-09-17T09:14:00.001-07:00

What's in a name? A lot, it seems.

Growing up in Singapore, I was indifferent to being a Tan. "Tan" is like "Smith" in Singapore - you can't swing a purse without knocking over six of us. 9.5% of Singapore's population shares my last name. Statistically speaking, this means that I could conceivably walk into a party of 50 people in Singapore, and meet 5 other Tans. That is some crazy shit.

But for all it's foibles, being a Tan in Singapore was easy. No one misspelled my name. No one inclined their heads at a 45 degree angle, and told me spell it out, s-l-o-w-l-y, one letter at a time. Being a Tan was easy, identifiable, vanilla. School officials and government clerks would scan my face in a bored, purely perfunctory fashion, before checking off the "Chinese" box on forms. I felt sorry for the East Indian kids with long names like "Shankaranarayanan." The Chinese kids would tease them mercilessly by saying their first names out loud, then replacing last names with a series of ugly, nonsensical gurgles. Not me though. Never me. Being a Tan afforded the comfort and arrogance with never having to prove yourself to the status quo, because you were the status quo.

Then, we moved to California, and my name became a point of interest. Wonder of wonders, for the first time ever, people were actually misspelling my name. I never thought it was possible for three letters to have these many permutations. "Ten". "Tam". "Tang." Some immigrants recount tales of their first American grocery store shopping trip, or the first time they caught sight of sprawling, interconnected highways. My own immigrant experience is distilled in this sing song exchange, repeated ad nauseum "T as in Tom A as in Apple N as in Nancy no not M N as in Nancy yes my last name is Tan with an n." In that naively enthusiastic, guileless, uniquely American way, people would attempt to place me in their world order by saying, "Tan...is that....?"

"Chinese." I would finish for them.

Ah! A smile of relief. All was good in the world. I was figured out. Sometimes a little joke would follow, "That makes you a California Tan!"

Indeed. In the years that would follow, this California Tan started attending college. At house parties and keggers, when the beer was flowing and everyone was swaying gently to Sublime, I'd have my signature socio-political rants with fellow nerds, and declaim things like global warming, the gradual erosion of our civil rights, and the horribly archaic practice of changing one's name when one got married. "It's pathetic," I remember saying. "It's like giving your family background the finger. Does your heritage not count anymore?" The logic was infallible, I felt. If men could segue in and out of the cycles of life without any changes in their name, it stood to reason that women should enjoy that same privilege as well. Later on, as a newbie marketer in corporate America, I watched women around me get married. Half of them kept their last names, citing "their identity" and "professional reasons." I cheered them on silently. If the personal was political, I too was determined to never embody this sexist tradition.

I don't know when I changed my mind. I only know for a fact that it was after I met him. It could have been on one of our long walks up West Avenue, when he'd walk me back to my apartment from a date. Or, it could have been when we were at a party, the two of us laughing at an inside joke to which no one else was privy. Perhaps it happened when we first moved in together, on a lazy Sunday morning, over spinach omelets and the Miami Herald. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to look at myself as part of whole, and not a separate unit. Was I was losing my identity? No. On the contrary, I was with someone who inspired me to be a better version of myself. Sort of like an enhanced, debugged, Bev Ver 2.0. Sharing a name with him stood for partnership and solidarity, not subjugation and sexism. And the most profound symbolism of all - that no matter what differences we may have, no matter difficulties life throws our way - we weather these storms as a team.

I still have three more months of being a Tan. These days, I have come to look upon my name as an old friend, one whose company I sometimes took for granted. We grew up together, discovered the world together, questioned god, the meaning of life, and everything in between. Who I am, what I've seen and done - my old friend has been there for it all, since the beginning, since Day One. I don't give up old friends easily. Thankfully, I won't have to. Tan will still be a part of me. A middle-name, and therefore one that is not front and center. Still, a part of me. No final goodbyes, this one's too hard. More importantly, I'll be saying hello to my new name. Murray. Old Irish in origin, it makes me want to skip and dance. It sounds jolly, like a whole bunch of people laughing out loud, like someone you would have multiple pints and crack dirty jokes with. In the history of his family at least, I'll be the first Chinese Murray. I like seeing our names side-by-side, two worlds coming together. Part of a whole. The same team. One family. I like that.

UCI - "Under Conservative Influence"

2007-09-14T16:19:00.001-07:00

"Oh dude. Not again."

That was my exact reaction, when news of the University of California, Irvine (UCI) Law School scandal broke. As it happened, I was holed up in my apartment, nursing a cold, and wearing my favorite gray UCI sweatshirt that proclaimed, "Once an Anteater, Always an Anteater."

No stranger to the spotlight, UCI has, in recent years, had what us PR and marketing folks call a "compound fiasco." This is a polite, more dignified manner of saying "cluster f**k." My alma mater has had a string of these PR stink bombs, ranging from the heart rendering (deaths due to mismanagement of it's liver transplant program), to the macabre (the illegal sale of body parts), to the flat out bizarre (surgeons stealing eggs and embryos, and implanting them in unsuspecting women).

The latest scandal hits a little closer home. And by "home," I am referring to the scattered, but ever growing community of UCI alums who graduated from the school of Criminology or Poli Sci. Back then, when OC ska-punk still ruled the air waves, and Gwen Stefani was still her bindi and midriff phase, the graduating class of 1999 preoccupied itself with three things: How to sneak pizza from the cafeteria, who had the best fake ID, and why in god's name didn't UCI have a law school already? In between tequila binges and LSAT cramming sessions, one of us would inevitably get a gleam in his eye. "Man, if they opened up a law school here, my life would be so much easier. Who the fuck wants to go to law school in Ithaca?" My friend wound up dissing Cornell for Columbia (he heard the girls were hotter), and went on to become a high powered IP attorney for MoFo. He moved back to Southern California recently. The winters got to him.

So, what is UCI waiting for? A non-controversial dean, it looks like. Just when it looked like Eriwn Chereminsky was going to be officially instated for the position of UCI's first ever law school, Chancellor Michael Drake pulled the rug out from under him. Drake cited discomfort with Chereminksy's left-wing op-ed articles, the most recent of which was scathing rebuke of Alberto Gonzalez. Chereminksy has since crowed to the press that Drake hold told him, "I knew you were liberal, but I didn't realize how controversial you'd be." And so, in a unilateral, highly drake-conian fashion, Chereminsky's appointment was rescinded.

The media backlash continues to rage like a midsummer fire through California chaparral. It is widely speculated that Drake was under pressure from real estate mogul Donald Bren, an avowed conservative who has contributed $20 million to to hire top scholars for UCI's law school. Bren's support for Republican candidates reads like a who's-who list, and includes former President George H.W. Bush, President George W. Bush, former California governor Pete Wilson, and Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Drake denies allegations that Bren placed pressure on him to rescind Chereminsky's appointment, stating that his decision not to hire professor Chereminsky "had nothing to do with academic freedom or the infringement of academic freedom in any way."

Uh, what?

This has everything to do with academic freedom. The very definition of academic freedom allows for current faculty members to express their opinions openly and freely in public forums, without fear of censure or corrective action from the institution. The key is, faculty members have to show restraint, and must not claim to speak on behalf of the institution. For all of Chereminsky's well-known track record as a liberal raconteur, he has in no way overstepped academic policy as outlined by the UC Regents. In addition (after looking at my fiance's old law school casebooks on our bookshelves) - hello? The man is a renowned Constitutional Law scholar! If anyone knows how to successfully navigate the treacherous waters of church versus state (or in this case, personal opinion versus academic policy), it'd be this guy. In the immortal words of Smokey from the stoner cult classic, "Friday", Drake done fucked up the rotation.

The saddest part of this latest debacle, is that UCI's plans for a 2009 launch of their new law school has been blown off course, and possibly, derailed. It remains to be seen what corrective action UCI will take, and whether the legal luminaries of our time will be permanently deterred from seeking faculty positions. So far, the UC Regents and current faculty have done an admirable job of calling for review and accountability. I'd like to see fellow Anteaters, past and present to do the same. Start a petition, write your congressperson, raise awareness wherever you can. Protest on Ring Road, or chain yourself to the railings outside Bren Events Center. They took away our football team. Let's not let them take away our law school.

The Magic City

2007-09-06T12:21:00.001-07:00

"You can't be serious."

"I don't know, it looks pretty cheesy."

"Do I get to see J. Lo's bare ass in this one, cuz that's the only way you'll get me to go."

"Fuuuuck no."

Those were the reactions I got, when I announced that I wanted to see "El Cantante." The strange thing was, I knew exactly what I was in for. I knew J Lo was going to suck (evidence: her entire body of work), that Marc Anthony was going overdo his musical numbers in lieu of actual acting, and that the movie was going to focus on Hector Lavoe's sex and drug addiction. A heady combo, sure. But the lowest common denominator nonetheless.

So I went, and I went alone. I did this, because I had a feeling that my desire to see El Cantante, was directly correlated with my conflicting feelings about leaving Miami. Was this accurate? In a word, yes.

El Cantante is thin on the plot, with heavy reliance on music, color, and sweeping cinematography to underscore emotion. Nuance is conveyed by a wisp of cigarette smoke, by a slightly off-frame shot. Urgency abounds too - in the congo drums, the honks of New York taxicabs, in the roar of a stadium packed to capacity, all screaming out for a singularly moving sensual experience. There are glimpses of normalcy in the cobblestone streets of San Juan where people gather to hear a barbershop quartet, where a beleaguered mother comforts her crying son.

And above all - color. Color is the principal character in this movie. There is something almost wanton and orgiastic about it. Splashed across the screen, shimmering on girls' dresses, leaping out from palm fronds against blue Puerto Rican skies. Color was aggressive and in-your-face. No insipid Marriott hotel room watercolors for the producers. These were bright, incandescent, tropical. El Cantante understands the allure that is created when color, music, and sex intersect. And once I realized this, I realized exactly what I would miss about Miami.

This is a city like no other. Say what you will about it's foibles (and I have) - it is undeniably, unavoidably, unerringly beautiful. "You hear this? This is our heartbeat," said the Cuban guy at a salsa club whom I danced with, on one of my first nights here. "These drums, this is Miami." I never forgot that statement. It was so true. It still is. I grew into my own person here, I met some of my best friends here, I fell in love here. And come January, I will be getting married here. But the feeling of saturation, of sensory overload, of watching the sun rise, and seeing this city slowly throb to life - that was why I moved here. Yes, a city like no other. Certainly not like Orange County.

Where Miami's landscape is arresting and in your face, Orange County's is reserved, drab, understated. Huntington and Laguna Beach have a special place in my heart, for balmy summer nights and fish tacos, for bonfires and friends' laughter. But they never clamored for my attention the way Miami did. At a time in my life when I was restless and hungry for environmental stimulation, living in Orange County felt like a noose around my neck. I didn't want to get that acquainted with different shades of beige. I wanted noise! Music! Bright colors! And so I moved.

Four years later, I visited Orange County again. And for the first time, with my fiance. I was unprepared for how visceral that experience was. Standing in the sand on Laguna Beach with the roar of the Pacific Ocean, watching the sun dip lower and lower behind the jagged cliffs - I remembered what it felt like to dip my toes in the cold, cold water - even in 90 degree weather. I relaxed in the easy smiles of the people, loved how my tofu-mushroom burger was topped with fresh salsa and avocado. I closed my eyes and listened for the distinctive sound of waves breaking close to the shore, so close that you were reminded of how small and insignificant you were in the big picture. It took four years of being away from Orange County, to realize just how very breathtaking my old home was.

Next year, when my fiance becomes my husband, we're packing our bags and moving to Austin. People have varied reactions to this. "Uh...Texas???" is the most common one. "You'll see," I say. I hate the state of Texas, but Austin is a different story. Austin, I love. I love Austin because it is curious hybrid of Miami and Orange County - cities that have a special place in my heart. Like Miami, Austin is colorful and arresting. Austin, with it's tiled store fronts, guitar sculptures, and rockabilly punk rockers. Congo drums may not punctuate the landscape, but snares do. There is live music everywhere, every night, and I cannot wait to delve into it. It stands proudly as a bastion of liberalism in a rabidly red state, gives the finger to the rest of the good ol' boys, and that warms the cockles of my little pinko-Commie heart. And, like Orange County, there is hilly terrain. There are creeks and hiking trails, and green belts lush and spacious. It gets cold in the winter, cold enough to have to wear boots and a coat, cold enough to turn your cheeks pink. I already have plans for the cold. I want to sit in front of our fireplace and read. Or, more likely, I want to go drunken caroling over the holidays, punk rock style of course.

That is the funny thing about landscapes. You get sick of them. You grow bored, get tired. You want out. You clamor for something more colorful, more "you." The truth is, landscapes don't change. You do. So, I wonder what moving to Austin means to me. I think it means I'm growing up. I think it means that I will always, on some level, be restless. That I need the distractions of the city and nightlife to keep me sane. But that I need the creeks, the green, the good hearts as well. I think it means that I'm seeking balance. I'd also like to think, as the bumper stickers say, that I'm "keeping Austin weird."

Ay Miami! Te quiero you no' mo'!

2007-08-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

It was bound to happen, this change, this transformation, this veritable paradigm shift. After four years of living in Miami Beach, and passionately defending it's detractors and defamers, I am done. This city has worn my patience down to a nub. Let it be known that I tried, oh yes I did, to see the silver lining in this beautiful, vapid, souless city.

The story unfolded this morning, when I received a harried phone call from my client's wife. Let's call her "Maria Conchita." So Maria, bless her little heart, is originally from Argentina, and is 30 going on 15. My proud client had shown me photos of her. He favorite was one of her clutching her prize-winning French poodle, makeup spackled on her face, beaming beautifically at the camera like the Whore of Babylon. "Ees beautiful, my wife. Ees most important to me in my life." I smiled and nodded. This is standard protocol for when I don't care, but have to.

So, Maria called me and was hysterically crying. She had arrived at the Miami airport today, and was going to meet her husband and I for lunch on Lincoln Road. Apparently, the cabbie had driven her from MIA to Lincoln Rd without turning on his meter. What should have been a $40 cab ride, magically turned into a $85 one. Her husband was running late, and asked her to call me, because "Be-berly will take care of 'choo."

Her sobs were audible between her complaints. "I dun know what to do! He say he no let me out until I pay him $85! I no have $85 cash!"

Blood thundered in my veins. If there is one thing that I have grown to hate in my four years here, it's unsuspecting tourists being ripped off by shyster Miami types. It's the principle of it all. You half expect to be taken for a ride in any new place that you visit, particularly if it is renowned for being a famous vacation spot. However, to be cheated of your money, and then to have to contend with that signature surly Miamian attitude, as if it is your fault for wasting their time, by having them perform the service that they were supposed to perform... well, I took off, heels pounding furiously, toward Lincoln and Washington, where Maria was currently being held hostage by the cabbie.

I ran up to the cab and pounded on the door. He yelled out through the window, "Not taking passengers!"

"I don't want a ride! Let her out!"

I was struggling with the door handle. The door was locked. Cabbie was still yelling at me. I reached in through the open window on the front passenger's seat, and unlocked her door. It occurred to me then that she could easily have let herself out. Then I remembered that my client probably didn't marry her for her stellar intelligence.

She stumbled out like a baby pigeon, makeup running, visibly shaken. She handed me her sweaty wad of $40, which I immediately thrust at the cabbie.

"Thas' fo'ty, thas' fo'ty. Cab ride cost eighty five!"

"It's not eighty five! A cab ride from the airport to Lincoln Rd costs forty, max!"

"Eighty five dollas, and I ain't leavin' till I get it!"

"No, you're leaving now. With your forty dollars. Here, take it."

"I ain' leavin' till I get dat eighty five thas' comin to me."

I snapped. $16 martinis, overpriced condos, shady Israeli landlords, Bell South technician offering to cut me a "deal," surly parking attendants, 45 minute wait for food, Cuban time, "Ees not my yob, meng!" Fuck you, Miami. I've had enough. All my pent up frustration was released in a bloodcurdling scream:

"I'MA CALL DA PO'LICE!"

The cabbie froze. What was this? Crazy Asian chick, still in her work clothes, waving her hands up and down like a rabid marrionette, with the ghost of Bernie Mack talking through her?

"I'mma call da police! You mothafuckas are done ripping people off! I'mma call, and da po'lice gon' come right now! They gon' take yo' liscence away! You goin' in da JOINT."

I proceeded to fake-dial 911, pausing to glower at him between each number for maximum dramatic effect.

He got in his cab in a huff and drove off, but not before yelling some choice obscenities at me.

Everything that I thought was charmingly dysfunctional about Miami before, has slowly given way to an almost Nazi-like impatience with the systemic inequities that keep our our city from truly being world-class. The very city of Miami Beach is much like it's famed cache of gold-digging women: it doesn't work, it only stands for hedonism, and it is hopelessly incapable of standing on it's own two feet. But it sure is pretty, and pretty makes up for a variety of sins.

Do letters of complaint, grassroots activism, and community uproar work in Miami? Maybe. But if you want quick results, "I'mma call da police!" is the way to go.

Yup, I think it's time to move. Ay, Miami! Te quiero you no' mo'.

Ring Around a Rosie, a Pocket Full of Posies

2007-08-07T08:22:00.001-07:00

I am getting married in 5 months to the love of my life. We ordered my wedding ring last night. Tiny diamonds, placed side-by-side, encircling my ring finger, the one that the Romans thought led directly to the heart. It's a nice thought. I look down at my engagement ring sometimes, and wonder if there really is a metaphysical connection. There isn't. I know, because I looked it up on the Wiki. That makes me really fucking weird, but my guy doesn't mind, loves me for it, even.

To be engaged, is to be engaged, in every sense of the word. You're past the "This is Fun For Now" phase. Dealt with the "Could Be Something Real" stage. To be engaged is to be fully present. Wholly real, flawed, open, vulnerable. This is never easy. We all have secrets from our past that we'd rather not bring up. The horrible, guilt-ridden, dirty ones that we'd rather take to our grave. "It" happened in the past, and "we" are happening in the present and future. There is no use tainting the latter with the knowledge of the former. We're best friends! We're in love! The present and future will take care of itself!

Or so one would think. My biggest lesson about love and marriage so far, is that being engaged doesn't just begin and end with the engagement period that precedes a wedding. It begins and ends every morning when you wake up, and ends when you curl up in bed each night. Every night. A truly engaged couple doesn't just do the bare minimum that it takes to get along. They work hard. Checking in periodically, saying what needs to be said - even when it hurts, being humble and setting your own ego aside, celebrating and mourning alongside your beloved - all this takes work. It is only by doing so that you are truly engaged. Not because you have a ring on your finger, and a fabulous wedding to plan. But because at the end of the day, you still feel lucky to be his. No matter how hard it gets, you would still gladly choose each other. Engaging your heart, your mind, and your spirit, and enmeshing it with his - that's what it means to be engaged.

So, while I'm busy perusing favor bags and monogrammed stickers, and debating the virtues of silk organza versus damask, my mind is clear. All this is ephemeral. We're not working toward some lofty ideal of what "true love" means, the kind that is featured by Vanity Fair, in their power couples section. We already have something that many people search all their lives for. Someone who loves you, only you, no matter what. This is why, even after the band stops playing, the caterers clear the food away, and the flowers wilt, we will not only be married. We will still, and always be engaged. Forever.

One Nation, Under God?

2007-07-17T12:55:00.003-07:00

Fresh from the runways of the world's Intelligent Designers, we now have the latest trend: an Islamic creationist textbook authored by Harun Yahya of Turkey.

The textbook, weighing in at 12 pounds, is an 800-page, beautifully illustrated homage to the infallibility of God's hand in creating the world, and all of humankind as we know it. It also disparages the theory of evolution as inherently flawed, a "theory in crisis," because the fossils of our past are apparently identical to our present-day physiological makeup. This textbook, "Atlas of Creation," was sent to leading biology, biochemistry, medical, and genetics professors in the States. The international academic community quickly denounced it in the press as "a load of crap" (Kevin Padian, University of California, Berkeley) and "propaganda" (Armand de Ricqles, College de France).

Should we be worried? After all, isn't this guy just another in a long line of Islamic fundamentalist kooks, cut from from the same cloth as the Al Qaeda types? A textbook like this could never take root in our schools, our colleges, our institutions of higher learning. This is America, dammit. Land of the free, home of the secular.

Never say never. According to a 2000 poll by People for the American Way, 1 in 3 Americans believe that Creationism should be taught in schools as a scientific theory. These same people were responsible for the savvy re-branding of strict Creationism as "Intelligent Design," a school of thought that came under intense public scrutiny during Kitzmiller v. Dover Area School District. Critical thinkers and reasonable citizens alike rejoiced in Judge John Jone's decision, which lambasted the Dover School District for the breathtaking inanity of their suit, and ordered a payment of $1 mill for legal fees and damages for teaching controversy.

The overall picture, however, looks grim. Under the right-wing Bush administration, the stem cell research bill has been vetoed twice, despite the fact that leading scientists have argued that the latter is indispensable for key medical advances. Under this same administration, a federal ban on partial birth abortion was upheld by the Supreme Court, citing legal precedents that are murky at best, and archaic at worst. What is the common denominator between these two issues? It is our government's shocking and consistent propensity to value religious ideology over the sanctity of human life. Forget the blanketed threat of Islamic creationists - millions of Americans today are suffering from diseases that would otherwise be alleviated by stem cell research. The effect on women's reproductive health has also been devastating. Now, thanks to the Supreme Court's deliberatly broad language, safe abortions taking place at 12-15 weeks have now been outlawed. For the first time since Roe. vs Wade, the Court has not provided any exception for womens' health in their decision. Creationism in classrooms, stem cell research vetoed, partial abortion banned - these issues point to a disturbing pattern of our failure to separate church and state, this time with dire consequences.

If you grew up believing in the same America that I did, the classic concept of separation of church and state was up there with the Magna Carta, the Bill of Rights, and the Constitution. Infallible, impeccable, and inalienable. Separation of church and state was something that we learned about in textbooks, a concept that was born when some angry English Baptists stood up to King James, or when dinosaurs roamed the earth, whichever came first. I didn't pay much attention. Then, as I got older, separation of church and state revolved around our First Amendment rights to burn flags and not have to say prayers in public schools. It didn't pertain to me. I didn't pay attention either. Today, failure to separate church and state is why people are suffering and dying, and why women are losing their constitutional right to choose.

You can bet I'm paying attention now.