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.

Keeping Us Fat, Slow, and Stupid - One Chain at a Time

2007-07-12T09:55:00.001-07:00

The financial houses are abuzz with the latest gossip. "Whole Foods CEO, John Mackey has an alter ego!" "He blogged on Yahoo! Finance under a pseudonym and lambasted Wild Oats!" "The FTC case against Whole Foods has now gathered steam!"

No one seems to be asking the underlying question: Why the hell is the FTC trying to block the proposed acquisition of Wild Oats by Whole Foods? Are they really concerned about the possibility of Whole Foods having an unfair competitive advantage in the food and grocery industry? Or is this really about keeping the small fish small, so that the big boys - mainstream grocery store chains - can continue to dominate the landscape? This can't have anything to do with the fact that commercial farmers, who sell to large supermarkets, donate millions of dollars to political campaigns, can it? Why, this would make the FTC....the henchman of government and big business.

Believe it. It's happening.

John Mackey, CEO of Whole Foods, is a self-described vegan and yoga-lover He is no stranger to the maverick label. However, the fact that Mackey shepherds a $5.5 billion a year Fortune 500 company, and has never contributed to either Democratic or Republican campaign coffers - that fact alone makes him an absolute freak. His libertarian ideals of free enterprise and empowerment management have no place in a country that is now driven by big business and partisan interests. Would it be folly to suggest that the FTC initiated antitrust proceedings against Whole Foods, to pander to the special interests of commercial farmers? Probably not, since the latter rely on mainstream supermarkets to distribute their products. Let's not be fooled: the issue at hand is not Whole Foods' potential monopoly in the grocery store arena. Even with the purchase of Wild Oats, Whole Food's market share pales in comparison to that of chain grocery stores. The real issue lies in this administration's dogged support of commercial farming, at the expense of small mom and pop growers.

A similarly alarming scenario played out in 2001, when the Bush administration vacated the antitrust lawsuit that the Clinton administration brought against Microsoft for unfair market practices. That year, Microsoft contributed close to $5 million - more than half of which went to the Republican party. Coincidence? I think not. Not two years later, CMP Media reported that Microsoft gained market share for its Windows operating system, despite competition from Linux and other open source operating systems.

Make no mistake, the message from the Bush administration to business owners is, "You must to Pay to Play."

And so, big business pays. They pay through their ears for lobbyists, special interest groups, and media spin doctors. They pay for the passage of legislation that will benefit them. They pay to retain their dominant position in the marketplace. Sadly, big business is the only entity that can afford this. Mom and pop owners, squeezed out and disenfranchised, are finding it harder and harder to keep afloat, much less grow.

We, in turn, have to pay the biggest price - an increasing lack of choices, and a shrinking array of products and services. In this beautiful, heterogeneous country that we call home, there is a shocking plague of homogeneity in what we see, eat, drink, and buy. It shows a lack of gumption and imagination. Worst of all, it keeps us fat, slow, and stupid - one chain at a time.

To My BFF - A Letter from Bushie to Scooter

2007-07-03T06:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, the White House announced that I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby Jr was the recipient of a commutation from President Bush. Instead of spending 30 months in a jail cell, Scooter gets to return to his family. Minutes before the announcement, our unnamed sources at the White House intercepted a handwritten piece of correspondence from Bush to Scooter. Below is a reprint of this letter:

Dear Scooter,

Sorry it took me so long to write you again. I have been having a whole heap of fun here at my favorite place in the world, Camp David. Camp David is awesome! Have you been here before? I will ask my daddy if you can come visit. You'd love it! They don't have any big people with microphones here! We can swim and go tubing, and play ping pong!

Anyhow, Fat Cheney is very worried about you. He says that all this bad press is bad for the Republican party. Then he went on and on about "those liberal bastards at FBI and the commie press." He was turning very red in the face, so I got scared. I ran off and read "My Pet Goat" three times until I calmed down. I wanted to blow up another country just so I felt better, but daddy says what for, we have too much money in the bank already.

Well I sure miss you ol' buddy. The White House ain't the same without you. I can't understand a word of what these people are saying. I think even those interns with their stupid Wellesley diplomas are laughing at me. I'm getting sick and tired of the world saying that the Iraq war was a big mistake. Why?? Daddy's happy. Fat Cheney's happy. I guess I'd be happy too, if protesters would be quiet during my nappy time. The kids here don't like me anymore. Are you still grounded for that leak thing? Will you come back and play with me?? Pretty please??

Ok, I just talked to daddy. He says I can give you a "commutation." This means that I still don't forgive you and I still think what you did was very, very bad. But you don't have to go to jail! Yaay!! This means you can come over and we can play Mortal Kombat and pretend that they're Israelis and the Palestinians! Oh boy, this is turning out to be the best day, ever!

I gotta go now, buddy. Fat Cheney is at the door again. He's making me learn my times tables and the proper names of all the Big Important People of the World. He says he can't believe a world leader can be such a fucking retard. I guess he's still sore that I called Nelson Mandela "that black feller" last year. I got grounded for that and it wasn't fun.

Write soon, ok? BFF (remember? Best Friends Forever!)

Yours,
Bushie Bush

Moore to Think About

2007-06-30T16:39:00.000-07:00

When Michael Moore's documentary, "Sicko" opened in the theaters, I was not one of the few that camped out and waited in line. I took my own sweet time. A Moore documentary often contains: heavy handed editing, a blatant left wing bias, closeups of tear stained faces cued to swelling musical scores, and Moore's omnipresent narrative. For the record, I happen to be a bleeding heart liberal, and a card carrying member of the ACLU. That being said, I also shy away from documentary films that are low on the "fair and balanced" quotient.

I was "Wrongo" with a capital "W." "Sicko" lives up to it's critical acclaim. And surpasses it.

"Sicko" didn't make me want to move to France, Cuba, or the UK - all countries with socialized health care. It didn't make me any less proud to be an American (sheepish, yes, but not ashamed). "Sicko" didn't tell me anything that I didn't already know about how medical directors at HMOs receive bonuses for approving the highest number of claim denials, or enlighten me to the plight of the poor and uninsured. The latter have already received their fair share of press from the media, and rightly so.

Because, as Moore states at the beginning of "Sicko," this movie isn't about the 19 year old crack dealer, who lives in a flophouse, is HIV Positive and does not have access to medical attention. This is about the 200 million people in the US who have health insurance. People who have jobs, own property, pay taxes, and are, by all accounts responsible American citizens. People who aren't millionaires, but can afford to dine out, go on vacations, and indulge in a shopping spree now and then. Middle-class people. People like...you and I.

I wasn't prepared for the nausea that welled up inside me. I wasn't expecting the ensuing feelings of incredulity, helplessness, and finally - rage. Rage, that a 50-something couple who raised 6 children and put them through college, were forced into bankruptcy and foreclosure because of escalating medical bills, and had to move into with their 20-something kids. Anger, that a single mother's claim for cervical cancer was denied coverage, because she was "only 22," and therefore too young to have cervical cancer. And, finally - a horrifying, chilling moment of clarity.

That could easily be me. Me, with the decent paying job, the health insurance, the gym membership, the well-balanced diet, and the vigor of youth. Plainly put, it doesn't matter if you have all of the above - I am - we are - all just a twist of fate, and a heartbeat away from the emergency room. Is this just a sad fact of life? Absolutely. But is it fair that I should stand lose my house, my job, my dignity, all because my insurance company won't cover the astronomical medical bill? Welcome to the American Dream. Big business has hijacked our healthcare system, and they are here to stay.

Throughout the documentary, Moore makes the all too important connection between the personal and the political. However, with another year and half to go before the Bush administration is a distant nightmare, I'm going to take my mom's advice. Eat right, sleep right, play outside, and lay off the candy. With the state of American healthcare these days, it pays to not get sick. I simply cannot afford to.

Pretty Woman

2007-06-27T12:12:00.000-07:00

I just realized something.

In "Pretty Woman:, Richard Gere offers Julia Roberts $3,000 to spend a week's worth of time with him. I was 12 when I saw the movie for the first time, so obviously the implications of this number escaped me. I'm a little older and wiser (and coincidentally, listening to "The King of Wishful Thinking"), so let's do some handy long division here.

$3,000 divided by 7 days is $428.50 per day. Now, since Julie Roberts is a hooker (with a heart of gold, I know, I know), and hookers don't work regular 8 hour workdays, it is safe to assume that Richard Gere hired her for a full 24 hours a day. $428.50 divided by 24 hours comes out to $17 per hour.

$17 per hour?!

If my recollection serves me right, the $3,000 figure was the result of a sassy, increasingly heated negotiation between both parties (him clothed, her naked and encased in bubbles, no power differential here). And what was Julie Robert's reaction to his final offer? She yelped with pleasure, then duck dived under the freakishly soapy bathwater, and popped up, grinning wide like an Alaskan seal on crack.

Now, I may be overlooking some key points here. $17 per hour isn't too shabby. In 1990, Clinton had just initiated a minimum wage "hike" from $3.80 to $4.15. So fine, our girl Julia's doing good. She's at least making more than the 16 year old Dominican kid at McDonald's. If she keeps blowing more slumming millionaires like Richard Gere, she might accumulate enough stash to make that important symbolic transition from storing your cash in the toilet water tank, to stuffing it in your mattress. And, let's not forget that she does get to kick it at the penthouse suite in the Wilshire Beverly Hills, swill champagne and strawberries, attend the opera in diamonds (borrowed, mind you), and go shopping on Rodeo Drive with his platinum credit card.

On the other hand, she also suffers the humiliation of getting kicked out of upscale fashion boutiques because they "don't serve people like her," the anxiety of having to learn how to eat a proper seven course meal with appropriate silverware, the identity obliterating designation of herself as Richard Gere's "niece," a near rape by George "shrimp store" Costanza, and the ensuing cognitive dissonance at the end of their 7 day fee agreement, when she has to pack up her things and turn tricks on Hollywood and Vine.

After her self-esteem is shattered and her future is deemed uncertain (cuz hey, an educated hooker is a sad hooker), Richard Gere saves the day by pulling up to her place, overcoming his acrophobia, and scooping her up. Presumably, they live happily after after in domestic bliss, and Julie Roberts continues to create controversy at derby races by whooping and making fart sounds like Arsenio Hall.

Well negotiated, Mr Gere. Not a bad deal for $17 an hour. And man, what an awesome soundtrack.

The Children's Story I Wrote Last Night

2007-06-13T06:11:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time,

There was a puppy named Mango. Mango lived in a house with a couple and their two children. The children were a boy and a girl named Jade and Jason. Their father and mother loved Jade, Jason, and Mango very much.

Every morning, Jade and Jason would take Mango on his daily morning walks. They like to walk up and down the streets, pointing out interesting things that caught their eye. There were many interesting things to see on their street.

There was Gigi the cat. Gigi liked to sit at the window sill, very still and quiet like a statue, and watch the world pass her by. Sometimes, Gigi would run up a tree, quick like an arrow, just so she could sit on tree branches and see the world a little better.

There was Alonzo the bird, who liked to sit on rooftops and sing. Alonzo had a beautiful voice. When Alonzo wanted to see the world a little better, he would spread his wings and fly away.

There was Jose the fish, who liked to swim around and around the neighborhood. Jose had shiny fins, and could swim faster and farther than anyone in the neighborhood.

One day, Mango tried to run up a tree trunk, but couldn't. He kept falling off! Then, he stretched his paws out and tried to fly, but he couldn't! And, he wanted to swim across the creek to say hi to the people in the other houses, but he couldn't!

Mango was sad. He wanted to see the world, just like they did. "Why can't I sit up on tree branches like Gigi the Cat? Or fly away like Alonzo the bird? Or swim really fast, like Jose the fish? What's wrong with me?"

Mango was so sad, in fact, that he didn't do all the things that made him happy anymore. When Jade and Jason came home, he didn't play fetch with him. He didn't want to sit up for a milk bone, and he didn't want to run and skip anymore.

Jade and Jason were sad too. They loved Mango, and wanted to see him wag his tail and be happy.

Then one day, something happened. A magic plant started growing in between the cracks in the sidewalk. This plant was really cool, and had petals full of neon shades, and glistened pink and green and blue in the sun. It was was tiny - about the size of your little finger. You could really miss it if you weren't looking closely.

Did Gigi the cat see the magic plant? No. She was up on her tree branch, looking down at the whole street. Right now, flowers and bushes were but a speck to her.

Did Alonzo the bird see the magic plant? No. He was flying away on his merry way, looking down at the neighborhood. Right now, people and cars were but a speck to him

Did Jose the fish see the magic plant? No. He was swimming to the next creek, deep underwater, and couldnt' see anything going on in the neighborhood, unless he poked his head up.

"Hurray!" thought Mango. "I saw the magic plant with it's neon leaves and colored petals, and no one else can! This is great! I can see the world my way, and it can be beautiful too! I am special!"

So kids, that day, Mango learned a very important lesson. Every one is different, and every one has their own unique way of looking at the world. But, this doesn't mean that one person's way of looking at the world, is better than another person's way of looking at the world. The world is a beautiful place, and we all see different beautiful things about it.

Imagine, if I shared my story with you, and you shared your story with me, and we shared our stories with the whole world, wouldn't we all be happy, listening to all these beautiful stories?

What I Really Want To Say To My HR Director

2007-05-23T10:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Nancy,

This morning, I was called into private, closed-door meeting with you, where you proceeded to "clarify" our agency's policy on work appropriate appearance. Imagine my surprise, when you targeted not my 4" hooker heels, or my whore-of-Babylon Dior perfume, but rather my hair. You said it was "too long" and "seductive" and "scented." That you noticed how people would tend to stare at it during presentations, rather than focus on my media plan. You then smiled and patted my hand, telling me not to worry, because other than my "hair issue," you thought I was doing "just a bang-up job."

Well Nancy, I've given your input some thought (i.e. while taking a much needed pee break after your nonsensical lecture). I'm a reasonable person. Work feedback is very important to me. Self-actualization and all that crap. But while I was sitting there, pondering my choices on banana clips versus ponytail holders, I kept circling back to this thought:

Are you crazy??

Our CEO likes to pontificate about how we're the biggest and baddest in the advertising and PR industry. Because, as the signs scattered throughout our offices (worldwide!) like to remind us, we are in the business of Perception, Perception, Perception. As an employee of this esteemed organization yourself, maybe it's time we gave you some well deserved feedback on how others perceive you.

First, there's your attire. When other directors (you are a director, aren't you? Even though I suspect that HR is not technically a department, but rather a collection of church moms?) are swaning around in their immaculately pressed suits, you tend toward an almost daily uniform of black leggings, a clingy sweater, and flats. Your shoes are fine. A little scuffed, and I know you bought that shit for $8.99 at Payless, but fine nonetheless. Those leggings and sweaters though...

Honey, I know J-Lo put big booties on the menu. I like a little junk in the trunk myself. But see, the difference between you and J-Lo is...about 180 lbs. Did you read in Vogue that black leggings were slimming, and go to town with it? This only works for models, my dear. Those girls starve themselves! You could maybe start by cutting down on the constant snacking. Stop pretending to buy extra large sheet cakes "for birthdays." We know you eat half all by yourself. Try limiting your caloric intake to 3,000 calories a day. Maybe then the guys in Creative will stop doing shadow puppets on your ass, whenever your back is turned. If you must flaunt your behind, invest in a couple of thongs. This will no doubt be a fire hazard. But it is a lot more palatable than the cellulite ridden quadra-butt that we have come to know and fear.

Second, the clingy sweater issue. Nancy, Nancy. I know you want to shake watcha momma gave ya, but the rap song was referring to a nubile African-American girl's ass. On the dancefloor. Not, I repeat, not those gigantic mounds of droopy flesh that you call your mammary glands. Or those bags of oatmeal underneath, otherwise known as your three stomachs. Did you not see our CFO actually recoiling in disgust when you walked into the staff meeting? You were wearing a tight, bright orange sweater! Made of polyester! Cut low, to show off your wrinkly cleavage(s). Have mercy, woman. Invest in a girdle and an undershirt. In the meantime, Wal-Mart carries a great selection of Corporate Mu-Muus.

Yours Sincerely,
Bev
PR, Key Accounts

ps. You might want to talk to Julio, the flaming gay, Dominican graphic designer, about his hot pink buzz cut. His cube is right next to the conference room where we meet with clients. I believe this falls under your current standards as "distracting."

psII. I know you ate my low-fat cottage cheese. I'm pissed, but only a little. This is progress. At least this is healthier than your usual midday snack of Twinkies and a chocolate Yoo-Hoo.

Aiya, You're Marrying A Jewish Boy!

2007-05-16T08:15:00.000-07:00

Few things in life are better than falling in love. If you have met your heart's counterpart, congratulations, this means that the herpes medication is working. If he's Jewish and you're Chinese, even better. You have just bought yourself two sets of neuroses for the price of one. Who likes paying full retail anyway? Nonetheless, wedding planning can be hard work. But have no fear, little Asian shiksas. Your friend Bev is here to help walk you through each step:

1. Setting the Date
Dates, numbers, times of day - all these figure prominently in the Chinese lexicon. Every important occasion warrants a visit to the fortune teller, who will tell you the most auspicious times and dates to get married. Inevitably, this will conflict with little Lindsay's bat mitzvah, Uncle Mortie's wedding, or Aunt Sadie's visit to the doctor for her monthly bursitis checkup. Advice: Stick that info in your purse and fehgedditaboutit. Make yourself something to eat. Complain to anyone who will listen.

2. Budget
This is a tricky one. When discussing money, especially family money, the Chinese are famously delicate. This fact is echoed in their peculiarly ritual-cloaked banking practices in the republics of Malaysia and Thailand, where the Chinese are financial powerhouses. Equally diplomatic and ritual-laden is the Jewish community, itself a financial powerhouse in the republics of New York and Miami. How do you get both sides talking about money, without the discomfort factor? Easy. Stroke your (imaginary beard) and sigh a lot. Tell Papa Wong that his precious lotus flower is getting married, and what would the relatives say if she didn't have the best celebration, ever? Why, they would think the House of Wong were peasants! Have your fiance do the same with his side. Don't stop until both families have committed to some serious cash. If any relatives balk at the cost - make yourself something to eat. Complain to anyone who will listen.

3. Guest list
Mama Wong wants to invite her mahjong buddies, her high school calligraphy teacher, and the guy that sells her cheap ducks in Chinatown. Papa Goldstein thinks it would be rude to not have his lawyer, his dentist, and the entire JCC bingo club at your wedding. Who gets to invite whom? And how many? What about all the friends you want to invite? The answer is simple: Resign yourself to the fact that both families have hijacked your wedding. You will be surrounded by a lot of strange old people who smell weird, and love pinching your cheeks. Then, make yourself something to eat. Complain to anyone who will listen.

4. Location
When deciding on the location for our wedding, the fundamental question was: Miami or LA? Little Israel, or Little China? Not wanting to plan an out-of-state wedding, we decided on Miami. Of course, this took some finageling on my part. Yell-oh sistahs, listen up. You do not have to have your wedding at Chung King Palace in Rowland Heights. Mama and Papa will be dissapointed that cheongsam-clad village girls won't be pointing and giggling at your wedding get-up. But stand firm, and repeat ad nauseum, "They have a Chinatown in North Miami Beach. It's better value for money." They will nonetheless be miffed, so make sure that on your wedding day, they catch a glimpse of the giant roast pig that your fiance was supposed to trade you for. Don't let the rabbi see it. You've worked hard on this, so eat the roast pig. Complain to anyone who will listen.

5. Music
Think you know your fiance's musical tastes? Jammed out to The White Stripes, Band of Horses, and Arcade Fire together? I have news for you. You don't know shit. Inside that strapping young man's body, is a 300lb black woman named Big Chocolate Love. She comes out in full force when you're putting your playlist together. Big Chocolate loves Little Richard, James Brown, and Diana Ross. Big Chocolate does not dance to anything without disco lights and a dynomite sound system. Big Chocolate does not like any of that new fangled 50 Cent rap shit, unless it's Biz Markie or Sugarhill Gang, and then watch out, because Big Chocolate will be on the microphone, singing about being in the ho-tel, mo-tel, Holiday I-nn. If this isn't your cup of tea, compromise. At least you'll get your pink Hello Kitty cake. Eat it, and complain to anyone who will listen.

6. Food
Easily the touchiest of touchy subjects, food is the centerpiece in both Jewish and Chinese weddings. In fact, food is so important in the Chinese culture, that Chinese weddings have done away with the dancing part altogether. Every single traditional Chinese wedding that I've been to consists of more than 400 people seated in a gilded banquet hall, stuffing their faces with platter after platter of food, while every species of animal - feathered, furred, or scaled - repose quietly, head still intact, in their serving bowls. This won't fly with the nice bubbes out there, especially the pork and shellfish part. There are no two ways about it - stick with boring chicken, darling. Eat it, and complain to anyone who will listen.

7. Wedding Gown
Mama Wong wants to see in you in a red and gold cheongsam, veiled in heavy red satin, delicate little lotus feet shod in silk slippers. Mother-in-law Goldstein insists on taking you wedding dress shopping at the Jewish Bride's Mecca - the bridal section of Saks Fifth Avenue at Bal Harbor. What do you wear? How do you please everyone, and still look gorgeous? My friends, go Italian. Italian clothing designers are the fashion equivalent of chicken. Always in style, never offensive, and best of all, (repeat after me) good value for money. When you're done starving yourself for the fittings, make something and eat it. Complain to anyone who will listen.

If you've survived these seven essential steps to planning your Big Fat Chinese-Jewish wedding, L'chayim and Gong Xi Fa Cai! You are on your way to a happy and successful marriage. Best of all, you never have to plan another stressful event like this again. Until your kid's bar mitzvah, of course. Choy Vey.

Kayaking - The True Test of a Relationship

2007-05-03T12:59:00.000-07:00

People always want to know what the real test of a relationship is. Distance, some say, is one. If you can deal with protracted absences, emails from different time zones, and phone calls from the middle of nowhere, your relationship is built to last. Differences in religion or political beliefs is another. You remember how your Communion wafer tasted and are a McCain girl, and he was bar mitzvahed and loves Obama? No way are you guys walking down the aisle anytime soon.

How does that apply to girls like me, who a) lived 4 blocks way from her boyfriend (now fiance) when they started dating, and b) are just as irreligious as their boyfriends (except about Heat basketball)? I have your answer. Kayaking is the true measure of whether your relationship will last.

Almost 3 years ago, when I first moved to Miami, I went on a Puerto Rico trip with one of my best friends, and our now ex-boyfriends. It was one of those couples trips that, in my mind, signified my introduction into proper female adulthood. Ah, what I didn't know back then. The kayaking trip seemed innocuous enough. It took place at night, and our group was supposed to paddle out to a bio-luminescent bay, where plankton, when jolted by movement, would light up in an eerie green glow. It really was quite beautiful, but I have almost no recollection of that outing. Why?

I was stuck in the same kayak with "A". You see, this was my first time kayaking, and I had no fucking idea what to expect. I wanted my own kayak. I wanted my own adventure. I was game for anything. "A", on the other hand, had been kayaking several times before, and insisted that I "sit in the back." I went along with that idea, even when the kayak guide seemed surprised. I thought that sitting in the back of a kayak was akin to sitting in the backseat of the car. I.e. - you sit back and smile, while he does all the steering and paddling.

WRONG.

Not only was I charged with the bulk of all the steering and paddling, I also did not have the upper body strength to propel us both forward. We were quite possibly the slowest kayak in the entire group. How supportive was "A" throughout the entire ordeal? Not at all. In fact, he was a prick about it. "You're working against me!" "Paddle faster!" "What the hell are you doing back there?" After thirty minutes of this commentary, I stopped paddling and leaned back. I did nothing. He scowled when we got to our destination, then scowled when we reached our hotel room. I felt awful. I made us slow. I made us the beta couple. It was all my fault.

I realized that this was the perfect metaphor for our relationship. You're stuck in a sinking ship with a guy (in our case, a flimsy kayak), you need to get someplace, and one of you isn't up to the task. What do you do? How do you overcome the obstacles that plague your every turn? What do you say to your partner? Do you trust him to talk you through this? When the going gets tough, do you love each other enough, so that one of you doesn't "lean back and do nothing?"

That kayak ride was the beginning of the end. How I managed to be with him for two years following that incident, I have no idea. I should have cut and ran then. I should have paddled away as fast as my puny little arms would have let me.

This weekend, I am embarking on another kayaking adventure with my fiance. It will be our first time kayaking together. Yet, I have no sense of fear of trepidation, only an ever-growing sense of excitement. This is a man whom I have been snorkeling with, who, when he discovered that I have a weird earache whenever I dive down low, decided that he would keep me company by looking at marine life on the ocean's surface with me. A guy who wants me to publish that book already, because he knows that was what I was meant to do. I will love kayaking with him, as I will with everything that I am less than good at, because there is no fear, no judgment. Just a wellspring of warmth and genuine love for life.

I know what I'll do, too. I won't get into a double kayak with him. I will get my own, so that I can paddle with him, side by side. Because life doesn't stop when you're in a relationship. Rocky coasts, stormy weather, blind spots - life doesn't ease up, just because you're in the same boat. It's enough to know that we're in the same ocean together, seeing the same sights, taking in the same salty air. It's enough to know that if I were to flip over, he'd be the first to duck under and pull me out. I'm in my own boat, and he is in his. But we're in it together, and that's what counts.

Things I Learned While in DC

2007-04-28T14:41:00.000-07:00

1. It doesn't matter what color, race, gender, or religion you are. What matters is that you dress and act like Connie Chung.
2. To fit in, you must wear either black, grey, or khaki. To really stand out, wear pastels.
3. Real men play softball
4. Everyone has a dog, and every dog is a black and white border collie.
5. On an intelligence scale of 1-10, where 10 is discovering string theory and 1 is drooling and eating library paste, Miami is a solid 2 (potty trained, can identify primary colors)
6. On a physical attractiveness scale of 1-10, where 10 is runway supermodel and 1 is making children point and scream, DC rates a 3 (that second head makes you look unique, baby).
7. Embassies of developing countries and war zones (Botswana, Haiti, Iraq) are infinitely more palatial than embassies of industrialized nations (Finland, Argentina, Scotland).
8. Menorahs and Stars of David are not out of place in Methodist churches.
9. "Go fly a kite" is a legitimate suggestion, not a put down.
10. The difference between gay men and straight men in DC is...uhhh...ummm...nevermind.
11. Happy hour is huge in this city, because the concept of "happy hour" necessitates that one has a job.
12. There are 632 days till when Bush is out of office.

The Definitive Guide to Ranting on St. Paddy's Day

2007-03-16T09:14:00.000-07:00

St. Paddy's Day isn't just about drunken fistfights, big plastic shamrocks, and vomiting in your best friend's car. It is also about bemoaning the sad plight of Northern Ireland, and the no good Queen-obsessed eejits who have held them down for 800 long years. In fact, the very ethos of St Paddy's Day has evolved over the years to symbolize the long standing antagonism between British loyalists, and the supporters of a unified Ireland. So, whether we like it or not, bashing the English is de rigeur for the true and proper St Paddy's reveler. Always a champion for the underdog, I have added a few more things to rant about:

1. Oasis

I hopped on the "What's the Story, Morning Glory?" bandwagon too. The lush chords, the moody strings, the Beatles-esque sound, Noel Gallagher's plaintive wail, what was not to love? "Don't Look Back In Anger" and "Champagne Supernova" were practically my coming-of-age anthems. Forget old school punk, Britpop was IT. That is, until I saw Oasis live. This was the infamous concert at the LA Coliseum, where Liam Gallagher was visibly cracked out, leading him to spit on several audience members, screech "Fawk yewww, LA!!!" into the microphone continuously, then assault his unfortunate brother Noel with a stray tambourine. Their entire set must have lasted all of 15 minutes. I trudged home in my Docs and sulked.

Two weeks later, when Noel was quoted as saying that Oasis was "bigger than the fawkin' Beatles", I ceremoniously buried my CD next to my Debbie Gibson cassette tapes. You see, 30 years ago, at the height of Beatlemania, John Lennon himself had declared that the Beatles were "bigger than Jesus Christ." Sorry, Oasis. You were never bigger than Jesus Christ, and you certainly were never bigger than the fawkin' Beatles.

2. Sir Stamford Raffles and the British East India Company

Singapore, from where my family hails, is a shining example of what happens when you let the English establish a trading post. The best institutions of higher learning (Raffles Institution, Raffles Girls' School, Raffles Junior College), hotel (Raffles Hotel), mall (Raffles City Center), and country club (Raffles Country Club), are part of a long standing, unabashed homage to Singapore's founder, Sir Stamford Raffles. Which really isn't that bad, until you put this in context. Raffles was one of the bigwigs at the British East India Company, which in turn was commissioned by the Queen of England to further British commercial interests overseas. In other words, establish trade monopolies. Raffles kicked ass at this.

By the late 19th century, the spoils of Java, Malaya, and Singapore lined the coffers of the British Crown. This arrangement worked out great unil the Japanese invaded Singapore in World War II, and the EIC saw fit to take their business elsewhere. The fact that Raffles' statue still stands, unmolested, in Singapore's financial district today, is an indication of yet another awful British legacy - politely looking the other way.

3. Salad Cream

It's no fun talking shit about English food anymore. Especially when London is now home to a dazzling variety of culinary greats, including Raymond Blanc, Diana Kennedy, and Tommy Miah. The Connaught and Tom Aiken's regularly grace Zagat's Top 10 List. Bangers and mash, fish and chips, and steak and kidney pie are now being served up in Piccadilly as "authentic English fare." England is also home to arguably the best Indian food in the world.

How then, does one explain the phenomenon of salad cream? "Salad cream" is what passes for salad dressing in the UK. Manufactured by Heinz, it tastes like equal parts mayonnaise, butter, and lard. No matter where you are in the UK, ordering a salad inevitably means gobs of this gag inducing concoction, slathered on wilted iceberg lettuce and ancient carrots. To make matters worse, salad cream as a sandwich spread pollutes 1 out of every 3 sandwiches that you order in England. I'll take my chances with a chicken tikka, thanks.

4. The Lone Earring

The Irish need to take some of the blame for this. Bono, with the ubiquitous gold stud in his right ear, was singularly responsible for spawning this early '90s fad. After U2 blew up with "Joshua Tree" in 1987, every wannabe emo rocker was running to Claires, getting his right ear pierced, and quoting Nelson Mandela ad nauseum. This look might have been cool for all of 2 seconds, if you were a) under 25 and b) loved wearing black turtlenecks and sunglasses at night. Tell that to the Englishman. Till this day, a good 80% of blokes on the Tube, from suited financiers to football yobs, still rock the lone earring look. Ghastly, darling, ghastly.

5. Boarding schools

When I was 7 and obsessed with Enid Blyton novels, I used to beg my parents to send me to an English boarding school. I wanted it all, the starched wool uniforms, snowball fights, porridge for breakfast, nightime stories in bunk beds. It would be just like camp! Only year round, and in a wintry clime, with faraway names like West Lancashire or Hallowbrook Hill.

I got my wish, sort of. They enrolled me in St. Nicholas, Singapore's most elite all girl Catholic school. Not the Mass-once-a-year type Catholicism either, this was the flesh-and-blood-of-Baby-Jesus kind. Despite the fact that my own family was profoundly irreligious, I learned many valuable lessons, such as: saying Hail Marys three times a day, white cotton panties only (black meant you were a slut), and that the only thing better than being a mother was to be a Virgin Mother. My favorite was the No Boys maxim. When widespread lesbianism broke out in my school, only the teachers were horrified.

6. The Church of England

The present day Church of England has been rightfully lauded for its open-minded doctrines and progressive social policies. Meaning, if you're female, a rug muncher, or both, you still have a shot in hell of becoming an ordained Anglican priest. Claps all around. However, English historians are loathe to discuss how the Church of England came about, and for good reason.

King Henry VIII was married to Catherine of Spain, whom he affectionately referred to as his "Spanish Cow," after numerous failed attempts to produce a male heir. Under Roman Catholic doctrine, divorce was a huge no no, so to marry Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII did what the English do best. He appointed sympathetic young clerics to Parliament, and promised them titles and land to declare his first marriage invalid. The Vatican got pissed, excommunicated Henry VIII from the Roman Catholic Church, and the Church of England was born. Henry VIII went on to divorce and remarry four more times, with each union sanctified by the Church of England. What became of our girl Anne Boleyn? She was beheaded for treason against the king (and, more notably, for not producing a male heir). Hail hail!

7. Bad teeth

I still don't get this one. Britain's National Health Service (NHS) covers everything from emergency procedures to boob jobs. The British isles should be chock full of smiling Blightys, eating curry, waving at the Queen, masturbating to Page Three, or what have you. Instead, the average English grin is still as dingy, crooked, and nicotine stained as it was before the Industrial Revolution. The stiff upper lip is not a result of a historically stoic culture. It really is about hiding shitty teeth. Wiley rascals that they are, the English have worked around this unfortunate state of affairs by cornering the market on another particularly English trait - The Close Mouthed, Bemused Glare. Ian Mcellan, Michael Caine, and Rowan Atkinson all excel at this.

8. Roundabouts

These awful traps can be found in any city that suffers from a dire lack of urban planning. While roundabouts plague motorists in France, Italy, and Spain - metropolitan London seems to have the highest proportion of roundabouts to streets that, well, go someplace. To achieve the sense of bewilderment and rage that every Londoner has to endure while driving in the city, you need not look farther than Boston. Boston is besmirched by streets that zig zag crazily and one way routes that lead into nowhere. It is also home to the highest number of roundabouts in the US. I was trapped in particuarly tenacious one, years ago. Two weeks later, I emerged, unscathed and starving. I do not recommend it.

Why I Should Be Nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize

2007-02-06T09:04:00.000-08:00

Last week, Premier Pill Popper and right-wing radio shock jock Rush Limbaugh received a nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize. In the true American spirit of friendly competition, I decided to submit my own application for a Nobel Peace Prize Nomination. The following is a reprint of my eloquently penned correspondence to the Committee:

Dear Nobel Peace Prize Committee,

What's up! First off, I would like to thank you guys for inspiring the movie "A Beautiful Mind." That shit was awesome, especially that one scene when Russell Crowe went nuts and started papering his shack with newspaper cutouts. I shed a tear when he got his Nobel Prize for crunching those gnarly algorithms and figuring out where the Soviets were to going deploy their missiles. Totally Oscar-worthy material. So thanks, guys.

Also, I noticed that you gave Rush Limbaugh a Nobel Peace Prize nomination. This gives me hope, since I myself am somewhat of a humanitarian. Maybe even more so than Rush. Because if I had any happy pills on me, I'd share them with my friends, and not keep my stash on the DL. That aside, I have made many other profound contributions to the human cause:

1. I don't really have a problem with black people
In fact, my favorite show while growing up was The Cosby Show! Yes, the Coogi sweaters, the epileptic dancing, the eye-rolls - that was when I knew that black people were alright. Also, I have at least one black friend (hi Steve!) who, to my knowledge, has never done a drive-by and is not a pimp. Even better, we went to a Weezer show once and he actually knew all the words, so that was how I knew that black people don't just listen to gangsta rap.

2. I support animal rights
As a general rule, I only eat red meat at Prime 112 or Smith and Wollensky. There are also many girls on South Beach who walk around with Chihuahuas in their purses, and I think that's so cool and Paris Hilton of them! At the grocery store, I only buy California cheese, because the TV commercial says that the "the best cheese comes from happy cows, and happy cows come from California." It's true! I know this for a fact, because the cartoon cows in the ad have a huge smiles on their faces.

3. I don't point and laugh at retards anymore
I used to go to kindergarten with this kid called Jeremy, who was huge, drooled constantly, and was always eating paste. I made fun of him until one day, next to the monkey bars, he went ape shit and had a Category 5 freakout. That was when I realized that 'tards have feelings too. So Jeremy, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pretend brush my teeth in front of your huge shiny forehead. Now when the Special Olympics are televised, I try really hard not to snigger, even when wheelchair collisions occur.

4. I believe that children are our future
Where would we be without kids? My god, it'd be like living in...South Florida! Kids are great. The best thing about kids is that you can make them fetch you beer from the fridge, and when you want to leave a social engagement early, you can always say, "We have to go, Little Timmy is running a fever." Also, it is so cute when kids believe anything you tell them, even the dumb shit like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. They're kind of like retards that way.

5. I have a diverse group of friends
My best friends, Gwen and Esty, hail from the foreign capitals of Ohio and Kendall. We often engage in multicultural exchanges. From Esty (Kendall), I have learned how to politely order an alcoholic beverage at a fine dining establishment, "Donde esta mi cerveza? Cono!" From Gwen, I have learned that unlike her, the vast majority of Ohioans are fucking fat. One can therefore surmise that I am clearly ready to be a spokesperson for international diplomacy.

6. I contribute to the economy
This one time, when Arden B was having a 70% off blowout sale, I spent close to $2,000! And that's just the retail sector! I also contribute to the service industry by getting my nails done, the tourism and hospitality industry by going on vacations, and the publishing industry by subscribing to Cosmopolitan and Vogue.

7. I Just Say No to drugs
Drugs are not cool. Now, I'm not saying that I'm speaking from personal experience, but if I did smoke weed, all it ever made me do was sit cross legged in front of the TV, watch Fraggle Rock, eat Entenmann's Coffee Crumb Cake till my stomach hurt, laugh hysterically, and pass out. This is all hypothetical, of course. Drugs are bad for you, and for that reason, I pass on the grass.

So, Esteemed Committee, given the reasons outlined above, I'm sure we can all agree that I am clear choice for a Nobel Peace Prize nomination. If you need someone to vouch for my moral character, you can call my boyfriend. Just not during tax season, because he's one of God's Chosen People, and this is kind of a busy time for him.

Yours Sincerely,
B

How Will This Fairytale Fuck My Kid Up? - A Handy Guide for Parents

2007-02-01T09:16:00.000-08:00

Congratulations, parents! You have successfully created a baby! Yes, who knew that night when the two of you had too much wine (and too few condoms) that 9 months later, there'd be a little replica of your sorry asses, running around? It must all be so overwhelming. The crying, the screaming, the pouting. And that's just dealing with The New Dad. Doubtless, you are also worried about how your child's future. Will he be famous? Will she be rich? Is little Timmy gay? Time to put away Dr Spock and Piaget. The biggest determinant of how your child will turn out is what he/she deems her favorite fairytale. Let's start off with a popular one:

If your kid likes Snow White:

Synopsis:
Queen doing needlework accidentally pricks herself, and, seeing her blood upon the snow, wishes for a similarly (and creepily) colored child. She gets her wish. Pasty ass Snow White is born to a king, whom by now has replaced Snow White's biological mother with Evil Stepmom ver 2.0. Evil Stepmom is not only mean, she also happens to be one crazy motherfucker. Fortunately, the loneliness caused by her derangement is assuaged by her Talking Mirror, which answers insightful questions such as, "Who is the fairest of them all?" and "Does this robe make my butt look fat?" Evil Stepmom then pulls a Tony Soprano and orders a hit on Snow White.

Or so she thinks. Time passes, and her Talking Mirror informs her that no, she is not the finest ho in all of the Kingdom, Snow White is. Incensed, Evil Stepmom crashes the midget orgy that is Snow White's new living arrangement. Truly a product of royal inbreeding, Snow White naively accepts Evil Stepmom's dubious gift of an apple, is poisoned, and drops dead. But wait! Luckily for her, Prince Charming happens to be rolling though the hood. He sees Snow White, is seized by a bout of necrophilia, and demands that the midgets step off and let him ravage her dead body. Thus awakened, Snow White rides into the sunset with her Prince Charming, where they spend many happy weekends shopping for teapot doilies at Pottery Barn.

Themes:
Oedipus complex, narcissism, midget fetish, mental retardation, necrophilia

Analysis:
Your kid fucking hates you. I'm assuming, of course, that your child is a "she" because if this is little Timmy's favorite story, we have a whole new set of issues. Your constant need for reassurance of physical attractiveness and unabashed vanity has left your child feeling lonely and unloved. As a teenager, this psychological void will manifest itself by your child's outright rejection of your role as a parental figure, seeking approval instead from socially permissive peer groups. Dungeons and Dragons, the marching band, midget sex romps - all these are logical outgrowths of the unfortunate child who has you, Evil Stepmom, as her parent and guardian.

Prediction:
Despite the crippling effects of your upbringing, it is highly likely that your child is naturally intelligent. Once she graduates high school, she will likely choose to attend college as far away from your icy sphere of influence as possible. Such places are called "Berkeley", "Oberlin," or "Amherst." There, she will act out her feelings of rage and inadequacy by indulging in repeated bong hits, marching for Tibet, and midnight circle drumming.

After earning her degree in the Psychology of Female Hysteria, she will start work for a low paying, yet socially impressive non-profit such as the ACLU. She'll date a string of stoned hippie guys with a penchant for ripping off Sarte. Soon, she decides that she wants to marry her Prince Charming after all. As a final assent to her actualized self, she shaves her armpits, gets her real estate license, and hangs out at Houston's between 6PM-8PM on Thursday evenings, in hopes that she will someone be spirited away in a 7-series Beemer. Failing that, her eating disorder reemerges (an aversion to anything round, red, or remotely apple-like).

Recommendation:
Yank that book out of her hands. Replace with Cosmopolitan magazine. She'll still be fed a fantasy, but at least she'll wear deodorant.

Famous Snow White fans:
Fiona Apple, Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, your psycho ex-girlfriend

If your kid likes Jack and the Beanstalk:

Synopsis:
Jack, the village dumbass, trades his family cow for five magic beans that some shady dude gives him, instead of selling his mom's cow at the market. Jack goes home and shows his mom the beans. Predictably, mom freaks out and tosses the beans into their garden, where the seeds take root and grow into a giant beanstalk. Jack climbs the beanstalk and upon reaching the top, is confronted by a gnarly looking (and apparently, man-eating) giant who stomps around saying cryptic things like, "Fee Fie Fo Fum/I smell the blood of an Englishman." A Manchester United fan himself, Jack is understandably scared shitless. Fortunately, the giant's wife saves Jack by distracting the giant. Jack not only escapes, he manages to steal a few of the giant's gold coins. Mom is overjoyed.

The second time around, Jack pulls an even better lift - a hen that lays golden eggs. Again, the hapless giantess helps him. (In the Hans Christen Anderson version, the giantess was a bookie, and believed that Jack possessed invaluable insider info on Manchester's upcoming match with Cardiff). Amazingly enough, they manage to fuck up even this cushy scenario, and Jack is forced to ascend the beanstalk again.

This time, Jack steals a magic harp that sings to itself. The harp calls out to it's rightful owner, the giant, who chases Jack down the beanstalk. The giantess can't be bothered with Jack anymore, as Manchester United sucks, and she's lost about 50 quid on the match. Jack has a harrowing escape and upon reaching the ground, hacks down the beanstalk with an axe. The giant is killed instantly. Jack and his mom eke out a living in that small village, charging admission for the harp's performances. Business isn't too good. The harp is an avid Kenny G fan.

Themes:
Oedipus complex, theft, commerce, reciprocity, murder

Analysis:
The good news is, damn, talk about ROI! Your kid is obsessed with making money, and better yet, wants to share his spoils with you. This is extremely rare, especially since it sounds as if you have continually ridden his ass for being a lazy, good-for-nothing sonofabitch. Despite his perceived naivete and lack of basic business acumen, your child possesses a real drive for accumulating wealth.

The bad news is, you have raised yourself a real little shyster. What kind of person breaks into someone's house, steals their wares, solicits help from the victim's wife, then exploits their good nature by returning and stealing their shit all over again? Worse, while your kid possesses a knack for amassing fortunes, wealth management is clearly not his forte (evidence: dead golden egg laying chicken). Perhaps it is time to give Merrill Lynch a call.

Prediction:
After dropping out of HBS or Wharton, your little underachieving prince will nonetheless learn a very important business mandate - whenever possible, always try to get something for nothing. This serves him well later on in life, when he starts his very first pyramid scheme. You'll be overjoyed at the sudden influx of lavish gifts and expensive vacations. Don't celebrate too soon. The FBI will catch on, and bust him under RICO for swindling millions of dollars from little old ladies with powder blue hair. While doing time at the federal penitentiary, he will meet all sorts of seedy underworld characters, among them the head of a Russian organized crime unit.

Cut to three years. Your kid will skip town early on good behavior, start up a shell corporation with the Russian mafiosi, then proceed to dominate the sprawling wasteland of oil politics. Five yachts, fifteen Bentleys, and three ex-wives later, the company will go semi-legit. It will be listed on the Dow Jones Stock Exchange as "Halliburton." His cockeyed college buddy, Dick Cheney, will run the show. Your kid? He'll be doing lines off a stripper's tits, who'll be cooing to him that he has biggest beanstalk she's ever seen.

Recommendation:
Yank that book out of his hands. Replace with SEC Codes and Guidelines. If he's going to launder money, he'd better learn how not to get caught.

Famous Jack and the Beanstalk fans:
Donald Trump, Scrooge McDuck, Montgomery Burns, the Bush family

If your kid likes The Secret of NIMH:

Synopsis:
Worried widower mouse, Mrs Brixby, has a very sick son. Their digs are decidedly ghetto - a cinder block on a wheat field. Harvest time is approaching, and Mrs Brixby is perplexed, because she needs to get them to fuck out of dodge before they get plowed over. However, moving her frail son might kill him. A cracked out Great Owl suggests that she seek help from a group of rats living underneath rose bush. Two rats, the wise Nicodemus (who bears an eerie resemblance to David Koresh) and the precocious Justin, befriend Mrs. Brixby and agree to help her.

As the plot unfolds, Mrs. Brixby discovers that her dead husband was an unwitting subject of NIMH's laboratory experiments. Some rats, including Nicodemus and Justin, managed to escape. NIMH, if you haven't figured out by now, is an acronym for "National Institute of Mental Health." As a result of these clandestine experiments, the rats become super smart. Like, friggin' NASA brilliant. They figure out how to harness the power of electricity, build engineering feats such as elevators and lit underground chambers, and basically live their lives in their tricked out rat pads.

The kicker is, there is a growing awareness that stealing electricity from humans is wrong. Nicodemus leads the collective effort to resettle in another place, where they can live independently. Their plan is almost foiled by evil moochers Jenner and his sidekick Sullivan. Capers ensue. I can't remember how the rest of the story goes, because frankly, Nicodemus scared the hell out of me.

Themes:
Oedipus complex, mortality, animal rights, communism, free-market capitalism

Analysis:
You have raised yourself a communist despot. On the surface, The Secret of NIMH is a sweet, heart-warming tale about the struggles of rodents against their human oppressors. What is more insidious, is the book's raging pinko flag-waving propaganda. The proletariat (rats) live out a satisfactory, yet morally bankrupt existence under the provision of The Human's Electricity (ref: "The Iron Rice Bowl", Maoist China). Fed up with the knowledge that their sustenance hinges on theft, the proleteriat then revolt and agitate for the institution of free-market capitalism. A fairer system, based on meritocracy and individual responsibility.

This doesn't go over well with some of the bougeoursie (Jenner and Sullivan), who want to maintain the status quo. In real life, Communism falls, the Reds don business suits and become stockbrokers, and everyone eats Big Macs. Not so in The Secret of NIMH. The proletariat rats struggle mightily, but are faced with the reality of long winters and hungry spells without the provision of The Human's Electricity. Many die for this ideological battle, including Nicodemus. And what happens in the end? Your kid is left with the uneasy feeling that if only the proletariat rats would stop their flag waving and babbling about democracy this and individual liberties that, their scrawny little asses would still be alive.

Prediction:
Around age 9, your kid will start with the questions. "How come we have a car, and Kenny's dad doesn't?" "Why is Richie Fernandez hungry all the time?" "Why does that man live in a cardboard box under the freeway?" You should be very careful with your answers. You should not, for instance, say that Kenny's dad doesn't have a car because he's a drunk and a lazy bastard. You should also refrain from pointing to homeless people and saying, "This is what will happen to you if you don't go to college." Sadly, at age 16, your kid will start listening to Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin.

This will signal his bobsled into hell. He'll start wearing hemp, switch majors from pre-med to Eastern Philosophical Thought, and eventually drop out of his overpriced four year liberal arts college. His twenties will be spent living in a commune in a haze of weed smoking and sexual knowledge of tie-dye clad Vassar dropouts. In his early thirties, he will have gained a following based on his manifesto "Karl Marx Is Actually Pretty Cool." By age 40, this following will have grown to the size of a small Third World Nation. He will have changed his name to Bolshevik-Bolshevik, and live out the rest of his life in a remote jungle village. Strangely enough, everyone is short and blue, and his wife bears a strong resemblance to Smurfette.

Recommendation:
Yank that book out of his hands. Replace with The National Geographic. Tell him there is a name for people who live in straw huts without running water or basic sanitation - Communists.

Famous Secret of NIMH fans:
Lenin, Stalin, Fidel Castro, my boss

If your kid likes your secret Playboy stash:

Synopsis:
Adult entertainment magazine founded by Hugh Hefner. Part of a larger conglomerate, including the Playboy Channel, Spice Networks, and Club Jenna. A monthly publication, Playboy publishes photographs of nude women, naked women, and um, more nude women. Since it's inception, Playboy remains the largest selling men's magazine, with circulation upwards of, oh I don't know, the gajillions. Famous Playmates include TV stars Pamela Anderson, Brooke Burke, and Shannen Doherty (I'm using the word "star" loosely here), musical artists Madonna, Tiffany, and Debbie Gibson, and two time beauty queen Vanessa Williams.

Themes:
Oedipus complex, sex, drugs, rock n roll, politics

Analysis:
Despite widespread criticism from religious conservatives and feminists of the Camille Paglia/Susan Faludi ilk, the reason for Playboy's success is that it effectively dovetails sexual titillation with intelligent socio-political commentary. Contemporary liberal philosophers of our time, including PJ O'Rourke, Kurt Vonnegut, Ian Fleming, Nabakov, and Margaret Atwood have all contributed to Playboy's op-ed columns. Indeed, it can be argued that in the face of the rabid right wing backlash, Playboy has constantly and consistently remained a forerunner in providing a fair and balanced forum. And, dare I say it - a strong proponent for the sexual liberation of women everywhere.

Prediction:
Pat yourself on the back. Your kid is going to turn out just fine. Raising him on images of Playboy models (healthy and with meat on their bones, not skinny and anorexic) will prevent him from developing a warped expectation of the female archetype. Moreover, showing your kid that you are comfortable with your sexuality will set him at ease with his own perverted little desires. He will be less likely to do shit like run off and join the seminary and molest altar boys. Also, it is highly likely that he will develop an interest in politics and someday run for President. His platform of social progressive and fiscal moderacy will win the hearts of Americans everywhere. If he actually reads the articles, that is.

Recommendation:
Renew your subscription immediately! To fully augment the educational benefits of Playboy, you may want to peruse the Centerfold section with your kid, pointing out the various anatomical features of women. It will be a heart rending, parent-child bonding experience. The demystification of female genitalia will be a huge boon for him when he tries to finger Jenny Hoggarty in junior high.

Famous Playboy fans:
3 billion heterosexual men and counting

Shana Tovah, Little Tapeworm

2007-01-30T09:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Tapeworm,

This is your mommy speaking. I know we don't communicate much, you and I. We've gone through some tough times together. You were unplanned. I never asked to be a mom. When you were growing up, I have to admit that I didn't always want you around. While Mandy Fletcher was flaunting her 6th grade badonkadonk in hip hugger corduroys, you were the reason why my nickname in junior high was "Beverly Beanpole." That really made me resent you. Plus, you were a handful too! Not the easiest tapeworm to carry around. While all the other baby tapeworms lazed around in their parent's colons, fat and languorous, you were spry and active! Causing explosive diarrhea during my PE lessons! Giving me a taste for airplane fare! Making me organize eating contests with college dorm food!

But, I have to admit, now that I am older and wiser, I have come to the realization that I am indeed happy to be your mom. You not only keep me young, you also keep me skinny, and while I didn't appreciate that when I was 12, I sure am appreciative now. It is because of you, little tapeworm, that I can fit into my high school Levis. It's true what they say about kids keeping you young. Except, you keep my ass high and tight too. Not bad for the mom of a 25 year old tapeworm, eh? Whoo! Your mommy's a MILF! Whatcha think about that, huh?

Nonetheless, as you have grown and matured over the years, I fear that I may have neglected the development of your heritage.You see, you're not really "of my bloodline," as they say in China. I was never certain of your ethnic makeup, because you were conceived during a dark period in my life (I was 3, and your grandmother decided to put me on a macrobiotic diet, I ingested you along with some unwashed lettuce leaves). Growing up in Singapore and Southern California made it more difficult to pinpoint your ethnicity. You had a taste for everything, from chilli crab at the Raffles Hotel, to Taco Loco in Laguna Beach. It is only recently that I have concluded that you, my little tapeworm, are Jewish.

I always had my suspicions. The never ending love for Chinese food, even Panda Express, the kind that Chinese people won't touch. A love for all you can eat Las Vegas buffet spreads. Constant trips to the deli for rye sandwiches. Sneaking dinner rolls into my purse when out at dinner. And, strangely enough, an aversion to leavening during Passover, gorging on cheese blintzes during Sukkot, and no appetite at all over Yom Kippur.

So you see, little tapeworm, even though your mommy is ethnically Chinese, you're a Jew! And because Rosh Hashanah starts at sundown today, I find it especially poignant to wish you a very Happy New Year. Tomorrow night, while we celebrate the traditions of a proud and long lineage of all the other Jewish tapeworms before you, I will feed you apples and honey, and wish you a sweet year ahead.

Shana Tovah, Little Tapeworm.

Much love,
Mommy

How To Become an American, Cruise Style - A Primer for Immigrants

2007-01-30T09:37:00.000-08:00

So, you've enrolled your kids in the middle school down the street, refinanced your suburban track home, leased that brand new Honda Passport, and enrolled in your employer's 401K plan. Time to sit back and relax in that bubbling stew of cultural assimilation, right? Wrong.

I have news for you, Rashid. You're not an American yet. Neither am I, for that matter. Even though I hold a US passport, dutifully file my taxes every April 15th, and vote in every Presidential election, it took a 3 day cruise to the Bahamas for me to realize that while I do reside in within the continent of the United States, in no way does this translate to qualifying as an American. ¿Quiere usted ser un Americano, mi amigo? A Carnival cruise may well be the best investment you'll ever make. Here's a primer on how to become a true, red-blooded American, weekend cruise style:

1. Food
Dispense with notion that all you need is three square meals of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Real Americans eat, 'round the clock, 24 x 7, no exceptions. Buffet-style meals are key. Forget about "ala carte". This is a fancy French concept for 90 pound weaklings who needed our help in WWII and never said "merci" once. Also, there are no such things as "breakfast foods" or "dinner entrees." If you want a cheeseburger at 8AM or Frosted Flakes at 6PM, go ahead and indulge. It is not only your privilege, it is practically a Constitutional right. You can always pick out a bona fide American quickly, because he's one who, when confronted with a surfeit of fatty foods at a buffet, still breaks into a (grunting) sprint to be first in line.

2. Dress
Comfort is key. Comfort is #1. Comfort supersedes all other elements of dress, including style, form, propriety, and quality. True Americans, like the Carnival cruise-goers, understand that the function of clothing is not express creativity or make a statement. Rather, it should enhance and augment your sole purpose for living. That's right, eating. All you skinny American-wannabes should run to Wal-Mart and buy as many pants with elasticated waists as you can find. Muu-muus, oversized T-shirts, tent-shaped dresses....all these should be the cornerstone of your wardrobe. Bright florals and polka dots are considered festive, so put away your chic black burqhas. You don't want to be a FOB forever, do you?

3. Entertainment
Activities like the opera, drama, theatre, cricket, and tennis are best confined to the Old World. American cruise ship style, we want to see you acclimate by busting out one of the following: The Chicken Dance, The Conga Line, The Electric Slide, or a traditional national favorite, The White Man's Overbite. Lest you think us Americans are all about mindless dancing, you can also choose from an array of wholesome sports, like gambling, shuffleboard, inner tubing, tanning, and (you guessed it) eating.

4. Gender Politics
Perhaps being under surveillance by the Secret Police in Kazakhstan was a drag. How in god's name will Suhail ever ask for your hand in marriage, now that the incriminating photographs of you and that Turkish barber shaving your, ahem, hair, have surfaced? No need to hang your head in dishonor, little harlot. In America, having your Lady Parts shaved by your suitor is de riguer third date protocol! Of course, we understance your initial reticence. Don't worry, if you do as cruise-goers do, lots and lots of Cherry Kamikaze shots should help take the edge off. See? Isn't liberty great?

5. Rules of Engagement
(a) I don't know where you come from, but here in the good ol' USA, we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps! We don't believe in rewarding laziness by creating a welfare state, nossir. That's why you can stuff your face as much as you want, but "island drinks" cost extra (slap on an extra $5 for a commemorative cruise highball glass). Don't like it? Well then you can go back to where you came from.

(b) Getting drunk and falling over is fine, as long as you're simultaneously smoking, eating, and wearing a bathing suit ten sizes too small.

(c) Don't feel bad because your husband only coughed up 10 goats for your dowry. Get even. In the cruise-goer's handbook, married American women are allowed to cheat on their husbands if the latter also go on singles cruises. This is the perfect scenario for newly emigrated mujeres, because if things get out of hand, you can always blame it on the effects of the drink.

Ernie's Big Blowjob

2007-01-30T09:36:00.000-08:00

Welcome to hurricane season.

From my office window, I can see on duty police officers regulating the snaking lines of cars winding around Texaco and Chevron. Every other car is a Hummer. When did Broward suburban moms become Nas wannabes?

I also just came from Publix, where a young family was stocking up on all the necessary hurricane supplies - Ding Dongs, Mountain Dew, Doritos, and about 15 jars of peanut butter and jelly. Fat, sugar, red dye #5. Don't do it, kids. You'll be on Ritalin in three years.All this, and I still have a mandatory 7AM conference call tomorrow morning.Gotta pick and choose, Ernie. You can't go around giving blowjobs to both Bert and the State of Florida. That's just not very neighborly of you.

You Are Not Carrie Bradshaw

2007-01-30T09:34:00.000-08:00

I know you're a woman about town and all, and this is Girls Night Out, but put down your Cosmopolitan for a second.

Those $500 Blahniks that you're rocking? They look hideous. Did you really have to pick out shoes with little flouncy puffballs on the front? No, they don't look "whimsical." They look like shit, because you have cankles.And that guy whose name you've been flogging all night, the one whom you refer to as "my Mr Big?" Please. Mr Big was a sophisticated, jetsetting, emotionally unavailable millionaire. "Your Mr Big" works for customer support at Bell South, and goes out to bars with his own Dolphins beer cozy.

I'm sorry. Was that mean? You're starting to pick at your hair extensions.

Maybe you shouldn't pound those Cosmos so quickly. After all, we all know that in a bit, you're going to announce to the entire bar that "Samantha Jones is coming out tonight." Then you're going to drunk dial your ex boyfriend to tell him that even though he was a lying, cheating dickhead who doesn't know how to love, you're going to do him the favor of spending the night at his place. Just to show him that you've moved on.And did you really just tell Cathy (who is clearly the group's Miranda because she's bitchy) that you're going to have "ex sex" tonight? Um, keep it on the DL from Marisol, because she is so, like, Charlotte - she only believes in true love. Marisol secretly thinks you're a slut anyway. But you can't stay to too mad at her. Four single, fabulous girls like you need each other to navigate the dating jungle of swingin' Wichita, right?

Finally, could you please spare us fellow diners the blow-by-blow of your "ex sex" tryst last night? I know, I know. That episode of SATC where Miranda went off on how disgusted she was by tucchus lingus was pretty hysterical. But your sex rant isn't. I know you secretly want everyone to eavesdrop on your girltalk. But Carrie had Hollywood script writers crafting her sex rants. You, on the other hand, have contracted crotch rot, and it's just not that funny, honey. It's actually on the gross side, and it's putting me off my food.So please, Amy or whatever your name is, ease up on the calculated sophistication. Look around you. You're not exactly in Manhattan. In fact, you're nowhere close to the Eastern seaboard! We're at a TGIF! In Kansas! Be proud and rock those mommy jeans. They fit your suburban hips so nicely. Order yourself a June Bug and extra spicy buffalo wings. Be yourself, and above all, remember:You are not Carrie Bradshaw.

South Beach Glossary of Terms

2007-01-30T09:32:00.000-08:00

Three years of living on South Beach brings about certain side effects. One of them is amassing a whole new vocabulary. If you have never visited The Republic of South Beach before, here is a handy glossary of terms for reference. Shots up to date? Sufficient cash? Comfortable shoes? Valid passport? Let's go...

American - Term denoting a person of Caucasian descent. Does not apply to other ethnic groups, inspite of the fact that they might also be "Americans."

Asshole - What people call the bouncer when they can't get into Mynt

Amari - Patron saint of free Finlandia vodka at 3AM

Babe - Blanket salutation for every girl whose name you cannot remember (see "Dude")

Beverly - One of the three Asian girls on South Beach (see "Grace" and "Jenny Yip")

Bisexual - Gay

Bicurious - Gay

Bump - What people do "a little of just to sober up." Taking numerous bumps, as long as they are "little" ones, do not equal a chemical addiction.

Culo - Refers to a woman's posterior, also a handy phrase to use when yelling out the car window to get a girl's attention

Cono - What you say when you turn around to find that someone snaked your $20 cocktail at The Setai

College Degree - Tertiary education conferred upon 0.0000003% of South Beach residents

Conspiracy - Alleged master plan hatched by powerful Latins and Jews to keep the white man down in Dade County

Crunk - (Noun) Specific genre of Dirty South rap popularized by Lil Jon. (Verb) To get excited/wound up while out clubbing.

Carajo - Popular Puerto Rican slang term for "Fuck" (see "un Cono Carajo")

Dating Dilemma - Unfortunate state of affairs stemming from fact that you have gone out with everyone in your peer group on South Beach

Dick - The guy at Pizza Rustica that buys the last slice of thin crust cheese pizza post clubbing at 4am. Also what people call the bouncer when they can't get into Mynt (see "Asshole")

Dwayne Wade - God (see Antonym: "Ricky Williams")

Dude - A blanket salutation for every guy who's name you can't remember

Ecstacy - Popular late 90s recreational drug, still enjoyed by club kids at Mansion and Space

Excedrin - Panacea for those killer morning hangovers

Grace - One of the three Asian girls on South Beach (see "Beverly" and "Jenny Yip")

Jenny Yip - Owner and proprieter of Miss Yip Restaurant. One of the three Asian girls on South beach (see "Beverly" and "Grace")

Jewban - Term denoting a person of Cuban and Jewish heritage. Unofficially responsible for "the Conspiracy" (see "Conspiracy" and "Dating Dilemna")

Job - What most women on South Beach are highly allergic to

La China - Term denoting any woman of Asian descent

Meal Ticket - What makes women flock to The Forge on Wednesday, The Setai on Thursdays, Smith and Wollensky on Fridays, and any condo opening party. (see "I'm A Real Estate Developer")

Memorial Day Weekend - Urban hip hop weekend, reason for mass exodus of the white folk from South Beach

I'm A Real Estate Developer - Most popular man's response to the question, "What do you do?" (see also "Meal Ticket")

I'm A Model - Most popular women's response to the question, "What do you do?" (see also "I'm in Pharmaceutical Sales")

I'm in Pharmaceutical Sales - Most popular unsuccessful model's response to the questions, "What do you do?"

Kendall - Where a person is really from when he/she claims to be from Miami

Parking Spot - Pervasive South Beach urban legend

Peeps - Term denoting close neighborhood/friendly affiliations.

Props - Acknowledgement of superiority, usually earned by sexual conquest

Ray - Personal trainer at Mirador North Tower. Part-time Crusader for Christ

Reggaeton - Genre of music combining Latin and Reggae influences. Popular accompanying sountrack to yelling "Culo" out the car windows (see "Culo")

Ricky Williams - Devil (see Antonym: "Dwayne Wade")

Spanish - Lingua franca of South Beach. What you had better master if you live and work there.

Text message - What you do to let your peeps know that you have arrived at the club (see "Peeps")

Un Cono Carajo - Popular Puerto Rican expression, denoting a person who is good looking from a distance, and hideous up close. Literally translated: "Damn! (She's hot!)...Fuuuckk (She's heinous)"

Vodka Cranberry - What you drink to mask the taste of bad well vodka

Vodka Red Bull - What sounds like a good idea after several Vodka Cranberries

Open Letter to God

2007-01-30T09:31:00.000-08:00

Dear God,

Bev here. I know I have been really shitty at times, making retard jokes, laughing at handicapped drooling kids, and generally being a huge fugging nightmare to telemarketers and Jehovah's Witnesses alike. But tonight, for the first time in 20 odd years, the Heat have an actual shot at winning the NBA title.And since you are the Head Nigga In Charge, I thought I'd cut through the ranks of middle management (Pope, imam, My Little Pony) to get results as quickly as possible.

God, if you let the Heat win the championship title tonight, I will be sure to change my sheets more than once a month and stop picking at that flaky spot on my scalp when no one is looking. I'll even stop stealing orange jellies from the candy bins at Publix. No fucking around here! Just give us a Heat victory, please. I need to know what it's like to root for a winning team. I'm a liberal Democrat and a long time Knicks fan, so you see, unless the Heat win tonight, I might just die a huge, HUGE loser.I also apologize screaming your name out when I was having sex. I wasn't using your name in vain, I swear.

Your humble creation,
Bev

Mom's New House Rules

2007-01-29T14:27:00.000-08:00

White House, 2:03AM

After the media hoopla died down yesterday night, newly elected Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, called for a private debriefing session. Journalists and media pundits were barred from attending, however our internal sources report that Congresswoman Pelosi brought her trademark flair for bipartisanship to the table. Below is a full transcript of the private debriefing session:

Alright boys and girls, everyone settle down. Cheney, stop playing around with your gun and come sit by me. We don't need you shooting another poor man in the face. Condi! Is that splooge on your face I see? Wipe that crap off and quit blowing Canadian politicians on the sly. Don't stonewall me young lady, I'm not the 9/11 Commission.

Everyone put on your listening ears and if you must speak, raise your hands and wait your turn. Shh! Inside voices guys! That's muuuch better. Now, as you know, America has elected me to be your new mom. This might be confusing for some of you. None of us have ever had a Mommy in charge of the House before, only a Daddy. Mommies do things a little differently from Daddies. So we have some new House rules to go over. What's that, Rumsfeld? You're tired and you want to go home? Be patient, we just need to go over these new....RUMSFELD! Did you just shit your pants again? Oh Jesus. Fucking great. Everywhere you go, you leave a huge mess for everyone to clean up. Fine, grab a Handiwipe and go home now Rumsfeld. Gates can help you with your homework later.

MOM'S NEW HOUSE RULES

1. Don't be a bully
Even though you might be bigger and stronger than someone, it is not ok for you to push them around. You have to learn to play nice with others. Especially the little brown people with guns, like Iraqis or Colombians. You can pick on the English and the French though, they've picked on every kid on the block for centuries.

2. Don't lie
If you did something wrong, say so. Don't tell the Big Reporter with the Microphone a fib, just because you want to look good on TV. Be honest and tell the truth.That Foley boy lied, and now whole world knows that he's a big fat homo. Daddy's even ashamed to be seen with Little Foley in public. If Little Foley had just told the truth to begin with, Mommy and Daddy would still have loved him. Well, at least Mommy would. Daddy's an insensitive prick.

3. Flush after using the bathroom
America does a lot of dirty business in toilets like the Congo, Haiti, Pakistan, and Peru. You don't want the whole world to smell a big stink, so flush after going to the bathroom. If you don't know how to do this yet, ask Uncle Janjaweed and Aunt Bosnia to show you how to ethnic cleanse.

4. Hold hands when crossing the street
There are really big, busy streets out there. Like the United Nations, the European Union, and the World Bank. None of these streets are friendly streets right now, there are lots of people who want to run you American kids over. So until Mommy apologizes to the whole world and they want to be friends with America again, be sure to play nice with your little foreign buddies, and remember to hold hands with them when crossing the street.

5. Show respect to your elders
Under Daddy's rules, you kids got away with things like using the Constitution to wipe your butt and flicking boogers at the Democrats. Things won't be like that anymore. Little Abramoff stole a bunch of money from our Native American friends, and Ken Lay fibbed to corporate shareholders. Now that Mommy's in charge, you have to follow the rules or you'll get a spanking. If you're really bad, you'll get an indictment.

6. Eat your vegetables
Ever wonder why your steaks, cigarettes, and gas are so inexpensive, kids? Because Daddy was what we call "in bed" with Special Interest Groups, like cattle ranchers, tobacco farmers, and Big Oil. These people gave Daddy's friends lots of campaign money, and in return they got what we call "tax breaks." Tax breaks allowed Daddy's friends to sell you all you could eat, smoke and drive, at artificially low prices. Now, if you a small organic farmer, say, Daddy's friends didn't want to play with you. And because they were giving Daddy lots of money, he couldn't play with you either. But Mommy likes to play with organic farmers too, so you kids can now have all the non- GNO vegetables you want.

Am I White or Not? A Quiz for the Confused in Dade County

2006-12-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

You poor Midwestern transplant. I felt so bad for you this morning at the Starbucks on 9th and West Ave, when you wondered out loud why it was that the blonde haired, blue eyed barista had a strong Latin accent. Turns out that she's Argentinean, bucko, and English is her second language. I understand the confusion. I'm from Orange County myself, and over there, Cameron Diaz is not Cuban, she is "white". If you live in Dade County, here's a nifty quiz to help you figure out, once and for all, if you are white or not:

1. You receive a party invitation. It says that festivities begin at 9PM. You decide to show up at:
a) 1AM. No rush, the first few guests are still arriving, and Jorge the host is still reasonably sober.
b) 10PM. You don't want to be rude, but still want to appear fashionably late.
c) 8:30PM. You want to help Becky out with preparing the tuna fish casserole and cucumber sandwiches.

2. A cop pulls you over. What does he do?
a) Kick the shit out of you and tell you to go back to where you came from
b) Give you a ticket and a stiff warning to go slow around the curves
c) Call you "sir" or "ma'am" and let you go with a wink and a smile

3. You are at Pollo Tropical and the drive through person asks, "Puedo tomo su orden?" You answer
a) "Una comida grande del pollo por favor"
b) "Um...sorry...no habla Espanol."
c) "You fucking wetback!! I've been coming here for five years and you still don't know how to speak English!"

4. Your idea of the perfect man is
a) Ay, nothing matters as long as we love each other, mi amor
b) He must be tall, dark and handsome
c) He must have a trust fund, and family yacht, and be able to trace his family back to the Mayflower

5. Your idea of the perfect woman is
a) She must have a big round culo, bro. Oh yeah, and cook real good too.
b) She must be smart and beautiful
c) She must come from Old Money, but not have any of the genetic defects that come with inbreeding like the Romanovs, or any bloody royal family, old chap.

6. You are at a club and Reggaeton comes on. What do you do?
a) Get up and start dancing, you LOVE this shit, meng!
b) Stand at the bar, nursing your drink. You're not really into this "scene."
c) Start screaming at the DJ to stop "playing all that fucking spic music."

7. The Heat are 2006 NBA Champs! You celebrate by
a) Driving around Hialeah honking your horn, in el coache which is crammed full of your homies and has missing hubcaps
b) Ordering another round at the Round Up
c) Basketball? You were too busy catching the PGA Tournament. That Tiger Woods is black and ugly as sin, he is.

8. How many people live at your current residence?
a) Nine. But since abuelita moved in with her second cousin from Caracas today, eleven.
b) Four. Me, my wife, our two kids, and we'll count Rover too since the buddy ol' pal is part of our family.
c) Two, until me and my lesbian partner decide to adopt a kid from Somalia.

9. True/False lightning round:
I have never once uttered the phrase, "Man, I really need some sun!"
I have a picture of the Virgin de Guadalupe hanging from my rear view mirror
I attended one of the following high schools: Belen, Lourdes Academy, Beach High.
I attended one of the following high schools: Country Day, Ransom Everglades, Gulliver, anything with "Hillel" in it.
When I get off the bus in Broward, I say things like, "Wow, look at all of them white people!"
I have never taken the bus before.
I like my beef well done and charred to a crisp, cut into strips.
I like my beef as rare as possible, with a side of horseradish.
My favorite food is arroz con pollo.
I have never eaten anything con anything.
I hate Fidel Castro because he is the most tyrannous dictator to have ever lived.
I hate Fidel Castro because NOW look at all them wetbacks now washin' up on shore!

10. You are trapped indoors during a hurricane. What are you doing?
a) Praying to one of the fifteen statuettes of the Blessed Virgin which are scattered throughout the house.
b) Watching the hurricane coverage on TV and wondering if your insurance carrier is going to go bankrupt.
c) Slitting your wrists. Your daddy started the insurance company 30 years ago and after with all these payouts to those goddamn Mexicans, you will be bankrupt in two weeks.

Results
Mostly C's: You are white and proud of it. You drive a beat up Chevy pick up, fly the Confederate flag, watch NASCAR religiously, and take off your baseball hat whenever someone mentions "America" or "George Bush." You kick the shit out if anyone who doesn't do the same. You have never been to a orthodontist (or a dentist, for that matter), and firmly believe that the brown people are the root of all evil. This is why you are moving to Tampa.

Mostly B's: You are white, hey, you know, it's all good. See, in your Anthropology 101 class at FSU, you learned that there was such a thing as "ethnocentrism" or worse, "Eurocentrism." This is why you only buy toiletries from the Body Shop and make sure that Bob Marley's "Redemption Song" is on constant rotation in your CD player. You love brown people, in fact, you dated an Ecuadorian girl in college once and she was pretty cute! You might be baffled as to why some people hate your guts in Miami, but hey, that's ok, you're the White Oppressor and this is to be expected.

Mostly A's: You are not white. In fact, not only are you not white, you probably didn't even take this quiz yourself (unless someone translated it into Spanish, in which case, a big thank you to whomever you are). Relax. You're cool. You're among your own. You're in Hialeah.

I Will Sing This Karaoke Song!

2006-12-20T09:45:00.000-08:00

Oh my god, I can't believe I'm actually doing this! I'm gonna get up on stage and sing a karaoke song! Me and my girls! I would normally never stoop to anything as embarrassing as this, but this is a special occasion! My boyfriend dumped me 3 days ago for a double-jointed stripper named Candy, but what-ever! I am over him, ok? Moving on up, baby!

I went to Express and got myself a gold lame tube top that shows off my fabulous tits, which are encased in my new Victoria's Secret Deluxe Waterworks bra! The lace kind, with the matching thong that is sticking out of my low rise jeans. This will tell guys that I enjoy having sex in public places, and am great at giving head! I am also carrying a Louis Vuitton purse that all my other girlfriends have! This means that he will be proud to take me about town, because I have class and probably tip valets well! For accessories, I am wearing a sterling silver Tiffany heart toggle bracelet! It proves that I will make a good wife and mother, and that I am worthy of meeting his mom! Are you crazy? Of course I don't want a beer! I don't drink beer! I'm sleek and sophisticated, remember? I only drink apple martinis with Grey Goose. Who are you calling "wasted?" I've only had six of these so far! Oops, sorry. Didn't mean to spill on your shoes.

That's our song! Here we go! Oh my god, everyone is watching me! Everyone is watching me, me, me! Time to flip my hair and act bored and disinterested. God, I hope my lip gloss is shimmering under this spotlight. It's from Chanel's "Mystere" line, and I paid $60 for it at Sephora. Shit! Missed the first line! Oh good, that's ok, all the girls in the audience are singing along with me because they know the words to "I Will Survive." Think I'm going to stick my hand out and wave it wildly while I sing, so that I can channel that "strong black woman" vibe. Even though I'm from Wisconsin. Was that cheesy? Oh god, was that cheesy? Fuck you Chris! You're the reason why I'm up here! I can't sing for shit and I hate the spotlight, but the righteousness of my cause will rally drunk girls everywhere tonight! To fully exorcise my demons, I shall change the lyrics to "...oh as I long as I know how to love/I hope Chris fucking dies!" My girlfriends in the audience will cheer and applaud my courage! I shall feel the full extent of our Girl Power! All the guys at this bar will know that us women stand together as one united entity, like LaVerne and Shirley times ten, and nothing will stand in the way of our sisterhood! Oh my god, why is that girl in with the bad hair extensions looking at me weird? Do I have spinach in my teeth? Whew, good, she's fatter than I am. Porker bitch, I will not be intimidated by you.

Is that really how my voice sounds over the microphone? I sound like a hyena being strangled! And I'm too shitfaced to make out the rest of the song! Um...is that Chris I see, walking in with his date? I can't tell if she's cute or not. She'd better not be cuter than me! The whole purpose of this evening was to prove to Chris that he can never do better than me. What the...EVERY guy in here is checking out Chris' stripper ho date. How dare they, I'M the one that's on stage! Oh shit shit shit, now Chris is pointing at me and laughing! And that miniskirted ho is cracking up too!

Fine. I shall toss my hair gracefully and finish the song. Then I will make out with the nearest inebriated frat boy that I can find, right in front of Chris, so that he'll see that I've moved on, quicker than he would have ever thought. I guess this guy will do. A tad bit overweight...and his breath smells like Doritos and stale beer...but I'm going to pretend that I'm too drunk to care that he's grabbing my ass and shoving his tongue in my mouth! Uh gross, he's all sweaty. Where's Chris? I hope he's watching this and hating life.

What? Chris left? He can't do this to me! I am an empowered woman! I sing girl power karaoke songs on stage! I have a Bloomingdale's charge card! See this Chinese character tattooed right above my ass crack? It means "female energy"! I have so much of it, I'm going to have another apple martini! Bitches!

I'll Pull Out in Time Honey, Honest, I Will!

2006-12-20T09:44:00.000-08:00

Dear Prime Minister al-Maliki,

Thank you for letting me hang at your pad. That hummus stuff that we had for dinner sure was good! Ever since my daddy threw up in the lap of the Japanese Prime Minister, I have always been cautious about eating food prepared by non-Americans. The Japs invented the bird flu, you know. So I wasn't too cool with the eating with our fingers from the same serving platter thing. I was worried about catching jihad of the clap. Well, I was still hungry after dinner. So I asked your security advisor feller where I could find a Big Mac, and you know what that sumbitch said? He said you guys don't have a McDonald's! No McDonalds? Whoa Nellie, that makes you guys a Third World Nation! I'm gonna have a little talk with my buddies at the IMF about that.

Anyhoo, about that civil war problem that you've got brewing. What's got your panties in a bunch, boy? I'll put out in time honey, honest I will. Don't look so worried, the US will pull out before we implode inside of you. Remember way back in 1972 when we were just fooling around? And you wouldn't give it up unless I pledged my undying loyalty? Well now that you've signed exclusive contracts with Halliburton, I'm all yours, baby! You couldn't get rid of me if you tried! Of course I'll still respect you in the morning, I'm just here to take what I want from your oil reserv...I mean, establish democracy, aren't I? No, no, Vietnam and the Congo were two completely different scenarios. We were too hasty pulling out from the Congo, and Vietnam, man that occupation felt so good we were exploding all over the place. But we were younger and more foolish back then. We got self-control now. But we gotta stay the course. My daddy and I didn't spend all that time convincing you to drop trou, to suddenly have you become a tease.

Don't listen to those liberal naysayers. My boys are here to get the job done, and when we're through, Iraq will be carrying the proud legacy of American multinationals and Big Oil corporations. I promise. Look at this face. Isn't this a face you can trust? Wait...where are you going? Honey? I'LL PULL OUT IN TIME! I PROMISE!

Bitch. Here you go, flaunting those massive oil fields again. I swear, the older we get, the harder it is to talk you into bed.

Your buddy,
George W. Bush

The Hurricane Blogs Part II

2005-01-01T09:30:00.000-08:00

Everything that you wanted to know about the South can be quickly learned while waiting around for a hurricane to hit. The psyche of the Southerner is equal parts fear, guilt, and alcoholism.

Fear is the motivational factor for doing some real stupid shit, like standing outside in the roaring storm, climbing up avocado trees to harvest them, so that the falling fruit don't damage your car, and offering to help your boyfriend's mother with Shabbat dinner. All three are to be cautioned against, and certainly life threatening. Especially when Edith brings her own set of kosher cooking pots.

Guilt is the ensueing result of your petty indulgences in these fear inducing activities. You feel bad that you could have died standing in your own driveway while power lines swayed crazily back and forth, died falling out of the bough of a gnarled avocado tree, or died while the Edith stood over you, scowling, while you chopped up vegetables in your usual errant California manner. Apparently, it is written somewhere that all Miami Jewish mothers know to peel their cucumbers and cut their white button mushrooms at a 45 degree angle for the maximization of cooking surface area. Oy, the shame, the pain, the horror of it all. But, I am after all a shamless shiksa who doesn't know better, nu?

It is therefore no surprise that shameless shiksa's in the South do things like blend up margaritas for good Jewish sons in the middle of a hurricane to help take their minds of their neurotic mother. I am now, of course, speaking of the particularly Southern brand of alcoholism. It is not the West Coast, well-intentioned, lay out on the beach and grab-- beer-and-a-tan brand of drunkedness, which precedes more productive activities, such as surfing or hooking up with the girl behind the Starbucks counter. Neither is it the East Coast agenda-laden, heavily politiical drinking binge that usually accompanies a Harvard MBA, a juicy filet mignon, a blonde, and an important cigar. No, this is drinking because you are cooped up with a house full of lunatics, drinking because those 140 mph winds have leveled all structures, drinking because the worst of the storm is yet to come, and drinking beacuse, well, the end of the world could come tomorrow, so why not meet your Maker with a grin and a beer?And that, my friends, is the real reason why the South will never rise again.

The Hurricane Blogs Part I

2005-01-01T09:27:00.000-08:00

So this is what preparing for a hurricane feels like. A lot of waiting in line at Home Depot while you, and ten thousand worried looking Cuban moms grab armloads of flashlights, batteries, and plywood. Waiting in line at the gas station on the corner of your street, where the price of gas has mysteriously gone up a good 5 cents/gallon since the hurricane warning took effect. Waiting in line at Publix and wondering how long you can survive on beans and crackers. That takes care of the purchases. Then, there's the packing.

I have reached the startling (delightful?) conclusion that aside from scandalous encounters and a couple of tube tops, everything that I own still fits into the trunk and backseat of my little car. Gloating sets in. I gloat because my next door neighbor, a surly Venezuelan, has just purchased his unit and filled it with expensive Italian furniture. I, on the other hand, am a renter, and not even a good one at that, because a year ago I took to the apartment with a can of hot pink paint and have never looked back since. And since none of the furniture belongs to me, I stand and laugh inwardly as The Venezuelan curses his bad timing. I gloat too, because this hurricane is timely, fortuitous even, as I am scheduled for a business trip to Phoenix next week, one of those cities that have swelled and settled with the undulations of the dot com phenomenon. The airports are shut down, I don't have to go, school's out for summer, school's out forever, yaay...

And of course, the growing sense of dread. Dread, because I've seen the pictures of vast wasteland called Punta Gorda after Hurricane Charley cut a good swath through it. Then again, Punta Gorda, and most of its residents, were pretty much waste to begin with.

Alright then, dread, because while I love rainstorms, thunderstorms lightning storms, storms of any kind, really.... I have yet to stand inside my house and quiver as the windows are concaved by the building atmospheric pressure outside.

Brain: But you're Californian. You're no stranger to natural disasters, you've been through all those earthquakes. Me: Yes, but I've slept through all of them... Yes, dread. That feeling that courses through your veins when your boyfriend tells you over the phone that his parents are planning to "ride out the storm" at his place. "His parents" being the possesser of that sentence. Ah yes, Saul and Edith, qute possibly the oddest married couple east of the Mississippi river. Saul of little stature and huge malignant ear growths, Saul of the soggy straw gardening hats of which he is so fond, Saul of the silver Rolls Royce which he never drives but instead leaves parked in his driveway because a Mercedes would be too nouveau riche. But you know what, Saul's ok. I like Saul. Saul never bothered me none, because Saul knows to mind his own business, like any other geriartric individual.

Then there's Edith. Edith, Edith, Edith darling, 6ft, 160 lbs of booming Jewess authority. Edith of the dry Chicken Kiev and dryer Gentile jokes. Edith of the orthopedic shoes and the unexplainable condition where one of her legs is shorter than the other. Edith of the droopy scowl and crossed eyes whenever you wade into their pool with *gasp* a bikini on. Now, see, I don't like Edith. Edith bothers me a lot, because she assumes that all Gentiles are wholly ignorant of all facets of Judaism, nevermind that you have more Jewish friends that her own son does. Edith, unlike Saul, does not know how to mind her own business, and that fact gives me Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

So while winds of up to 144 mph are whiplashing through the Bahamas at this very moment, and rainfall of up to 10 inches is expected, the only thing that seems to concern me is: there might be a storm raging outdoors, but indoors is where the real shit will hit the fan.