Things You Should Know

Oprah used to have these saccharine segments on her show called “Remembering Your Spirit” and “I Know This Much is True” (after the Wally Lamb book, presumably). I could never get through the cloying combination of misty montage + Panglossian purview without changing the channel. But the insipid titles certainly stuck.

So upon awakening this past Monday morning to NPR’s “This I Believe” series, I started to ponder these types of media tactics designed to make the audience feel a manufactured intimacy with the confidante, operating in Fireside Chat mode. Having recently read the book of short stories, Things You Should Know, I decided to create my own version:

This I Believe [abridged]

• A girl who opts to wear any of the various slogan tees found at Urban Outfitters (i.e. “B is for Bitch” or “Everyone loves a Jewish/Asian/Latin girl”) is a girl I do not wish to know.

• A daily cup of tea with a book would do us all some good.

• 85% of Brads are assholes. I don’t know why—but dem’s da rules. “Bradley” is okay, although a bit stuffy. But I guess if you’re given lemons...

• Juicy “Couture” is a stroke of marketing genius: get women to shell out hundreds of dollars for ugly sweats.

• Asian mullets are dead sexy.

• Milk Chocolate v. Dark Chocolate—like The New Yorker v. Harper’s Magazine: the former’s pretty good and readily available, but the latter is much more rewarding… something you take your time to savor and enjoy.

• Dogs are more emotionally intelligent than 67% of Manhattanites.

• Hipsters are just dorks in thrift store threads.
• Compliments from women and gay men provide the ultimate high.
  

• In Manhattan, there is never an excuse to visit a McDonald’s. Ever.

• Julia Roberts is the result of a secret Bob Hope cloning experiment gone terribly, terribly awry:

One step closer to world domination

Golly, Google just keeps outfoxing Yahoo!: first Gmail, then targeted ads, satellite maps, Google SMS (okay, that's competing with the phone companies and not itty bitty web portals), Google Earth, and today’s minor addition of RSS feeds on a customized web page. With drag-and-drop capabilities and a streamlined interface, the Google Goons had me leaving My Yahoo! in the dust.

Here’s what My Google looks like (click to enlarge):

Now...when's Google calendar launching?

Blowing off Bardot

After taking a vinyasa yoga class yesterday near Union Square, I rushed to the West Village to redeem my coupon for a “Free Bardot Blowout” found in the Min-K boutique opening goody bag back in June. It would expire July 31^st. A well-known fact: food and free stuff almost always gets me out of the flat.

Make no mistake of it: I have an Asian mullet. Although initially distressed by this cut, I have since conquered the phases of anger and denial; I now fall comfortably into the acceptance stage. I walked into Damian West salon shortly after 2 PM and met with the stylist. Standing behind me as I sat in the chair, she ran her fingers gingerly through my mullet and took in my features through the mirror’s reflection. “The Bardot Blowout makes your hair BIG,” she emphasized by stepping back and grabbing an imaginary exercise ball above her head. “It will also give you waves. Your hair is straight like mine. I don’t think it will work.” “No, not with my Asian mullet,” I replied matter-of-factly. “But I do have naturally wavy hair,” I continued with fading hope. It’s true, though. I was born with naturally curly hair. She wasn’t impressed.

So she blow-dried my hair and treated it with a flat iron. Bored with this typical look, I fell asleep in the chair. When I opened my eyes, my hair was a shiny, shimmering sheet. She applied product, cementing the flatness and sheen.

My verdict? Comme ci, comme ça...

Truth, Justice, and the American Way

The Supreme Court of New York summoned me to the downtown courthouse on Wednesday for my first experience with the U.S. legal system.

Pausing at a traffic light along the way, I glanced to my left and noticed a foppish young man carrying a summons form. Overcome with sudden jural camaraderie, I smiled and made a general comment about our shared destination. Then I cheerfully marched forward, wanting to make it past security before the 8:45 AM call time. After my belt buckle set off the metal detector three times, security finally let me through and I headed to the fourth floor to assemble with the masses.

And masses there were. I estimated about 150 people sat like community college students awaiting a lecture in the expansive waiting room, with its high ceilings and faded murals depicting historical New York. I learned the meaning of “grace period” and bureaucracy as we sat around for thirty minutes. Then, the jury clerk announced we would watch a video and line up to gather forms at a table in the corner. The video, narrated in part by Ed Bradley from 60 minutes and Diane Sawyer, gave us a brief history of our legal system. I watched as this tax-funded video showed a re-enactment of what happened back in the barbaric, olden days, before our highly-evolved trial system emerged: a group of what appeared to be settlers threw a bound man into a river and waited to see if he floated or sank. Floating indicated guilt. The C-list actors pulled a relieved-looking man from the bottom of the river. Once the video concluded, the jury clerk started calling names. I was in this first batch, as jury panelist #18.

I entered Room A and saw two shady-looking individuals at the front of the room. These were the lawyers on the case. They collected our juror forms and gave us high-level details about this civil trial. Greasy-haired fat cat Lawyer #1 proceeded to deliver a civics lesson worthy of a No Child Left Behind classroom. After doing hardly any noticeable work, the lawyers shuffled their stack of papers with an air of finality and announced it was time for lunch—a two-hour lunch break. They needed to sort through paperwork before commencing voir dire.

After a fruitless trip to Century 21 and a quick bite to eat with a lawyer friend, I made it back to Room A. Lawyer #1, a fat man in a suit clearly meant for inconsequential events, stood up and began questioning the group. Panelist #1, whose father was a Philadelphia lawyer, worked for Goldman Sachs and made no attempt to hide his frustration at missing work. The State of New York would easily want this conservative, financial white man on its side.

Panelist #2, Mr. Holt, was a retired, African-American man who had a pleasant, deliberate deportment. Given the relative youth of our group, Mr. Holt satisfied the older and ethnic demographic requirements the lawyers sought. He would be selected, too, no doubt. The next several panelists recused themselves from the case, claiming to recognize the names of the involved parties, or noting their partiality with the NYPD. But the older British hair stylist with a cowboy hat wanted a discussion. “I can’t help but feel that in order for all of this to have happened, the boys must have done something wrong.” In an exercise of futility, the lawyer and she went back and forth about whether or not she could be fair in weighing the evidence of this case.

Panelist #17, who sat to my right, seemed to be a comic artist. He drew unflattering portraits of the lawyers as the monotony continued amidst excessive gesticulation: he portrayed Lawyer #1 as a bloated, stodgy figure stuffed into a suit one size too small; Lawyer #2 looked like a manic hybrid of an ashy blonde, decrepit Jennifer Tilly and Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter series. “Blah blah blah BLAH BLAH BLAH!” he scribbled next to her drawing.

I could tell by the way Lawyer #1 questioned me that I wasn’t under consideration. He had a dismissive look in his eyes—making eye contact but never fully engaged. “Remember when you were in kindergarten and the teacher had you cut out snowflakes and said that no two were alike? Well, no two cases are exactly alike.” I thanked him for that sparkling, illustrative analogy. They dismissed us at 4 PM and I headed uptown to watch Johnny Depp on the big IMAX screen.

The next day I showed up at 9:15 AM as directed. Lawyer #1 appeared in a pinstripe suit, indicating a more important day ahead of him. Schooled in prolixity, Lawyer #2 embarked on a two-hour, uninspiring lecture about the jury process. I began to wonder if she had ever won a case in her life. I watched panelist #17 draw knives, guns, a teddy bear, and a sleeping baby in black felt-tip pen. I thought about Robert Crumb and wondered what he was up to these days. Finally, the jury clerk came back and announced the names of the six selected jurors and alternates. Among the selected? A man who hesitated for an unacceptable amount of time when asked: “If you were either the plaintiff or defendant in this case, would you feel comfortable having someone like you on the jury?” The rest of us shuffled back to the main room to rejoin the herd.

After taking an unintentional nap, I finished my book and glanced around the room. The most popular reading material? Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. The jury clerk dismissed about 200 people by 3:30 PM. We were now free, our civic duty fulfilled for the next two years.

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité (et Vomité)

The following took place between the hours of 9 AM and midnight on Saturday, July 16^th:

9:43 AM: Wake up. Weather—disgusting. Go back to bed.
11:32 AM: Get out of bed. Select “Jazz Hands!” playlist on iPod. Read A.M. Homes.

1:14 PM: Brave humidity and head to NYSC on Mercer Street. Spill ¾ of water bottle in backpack on Delancey. Drink remaining water during intense run next to hairy, sweaty man whilst watching cooking show on Food Network. Develop vague understanding of how to prepare fresh pesto, feta, and tomato chilled salad and pan-grilled Caesar à la Dave Lieberman. Wonder briefly why Dave looks like cheap American version of Ewan McGregor.

2:41 PM: Shower. Whip up spinach and tomato omelette with toast. Phone call to determine rendezvous. Rapidly devour omelette whilst drying hair. Change clothes three times. Grab umbrella.

4:04 PM: Enter film entrance of Museum of Modern Art on 53^rd Street. Take escalator down two flights and reserve seats amidst octogenarian set.

4:30 PM: Miscellaneous threats appear on screen for usage of recording devices or consumption of food and drink. Big, important donor names appear on screen. Same threats are rebroadcast. Just…in…case.

6:17 PM: Kieslowski's Blue ends. Depart theater in hunt for banned food and drink. Find overpriced cart on corner of 53^rd & Fifth Avenue. Drink water rapidly and head back to theater.

6:35 PM: White begins.

7:15 PM: Headache begins.

8:06 PM: White ends. Headache does not. Walk towards Sixth Avenue and find Starbucks. Surprised at heartfelt exhilaration in finding said Starbucks. Split butterfly cookie with friend and discuss post-theater dinner plans. Head back to MoMA.

8:39 PM: Red begins.

9:42 PM: Headache morphs into migraine. Introduced to new threshold of pain. Recall recent Harper’s piece, “The Pain Scale,” comparing levels of pain to the nine circles of hell in Dante’s Inferno.

10:07 PM: Can no longer pay attention to film. Ponder ramifications of vomiting in theater.

10:18 PM: Red ends. File out of theater and head to bench. Hold head in hands for five minutes and shut eyes to block out bright light and French film posters.

10:26 PM: Sit on curb of 53^rd Street. Consider lying on concrete.

10:31 PM: Endure longest, bumpiest cab ride ever. AC becomes unbearable, but it is too painful to speak. Feel knives in head and blinding pain behind eyes. Suddenly, decapitation sounds lovely.

10:48 PM: Arrive home in tears. See final “24” disc on counter. No desire to watch. Shut bedroom door and turn off light. Climb into bed fully clothed. Open door and ask for water between choking, sobbing breaths. Roommate departs to find medicine.

10:59 PM: Vomit, reproducing half of butterfly cookie remnants and water.

11:08 PM: Take medicine. Toss. Turn. Pass out.

Mail Boxes, Etc.

THE PROBLEM (failing to deliver)

Netflix promised the following for today:

24: Season 1: Disc 4 Shipped: 7/12/05 Est. Arrival: 7/13/05

My workout and dinner schedule revolved entirely around spending 12 – 4 PM with special agent Jack Bauer. When the DVD failed to turn up, I launched a frantic search, retracing my steps back to the mailbox. My other movie had arrived on time; so what went wrong? I rechecked the envelope just to make sure.

Where was that bloody disc? I started imagining different scenarios: the postman carelessly tossing it into the wrong mailbox or dropping it on the street; a portion of that familiar red sleeve sticking out of the mailbox, tempting some hoodlum passing through the lobby; the postman himself, suddenly struck with an urge for cinema-watching after his rounds, pocketing the envelope.

I admit it: “24” is all I think about these days. In the morning before I go to work, I make sure the DVD passes safely through the slot for “large envelopes” at the post office. I find myself checking the clock at work and wondering when I’ll get home to find out what happens to Jack. I’m afraid that if I blink whilst watching the show, I might miss something critical.

THE EXPERIMENT (mapping it out)

That is why a fortnight ago, I haphazardly began an experiment to optimize my Netflix membership. Since

so much depends

upon

a red en-

velope

reaching its destination in a timely manner, I decided to pinpoint the most efficient mailboxes and post offices in my vicinity. I hypothesized that post offices would always deliver faster than mailboxes, which would take perhaps a day or two longer to reach the Flushing distribution center. The map below (click to enlarge) illustrates the different mailing locations tested:

THE RESULTS (voting for FDR)

Here’s what I found: despite signs of obvious neglect, random mailboxes in the city performed decently. On average, the DVD arrived in two days. The one near Chinatown was slower. But the big disappointment? East Village’s hidden post office on 3^rd St between Avenues B & C. I walked past the long queue of weary, package-laden people and dropped About a Boy into the mail slot. It took FOUR full business days to arrive in Flushing.

And the first-class winner? The FDR post office on 55^th and Third Avenue consistently delivers within 24 hours. That's right: “24”...

Where is that bloody disc?

Time's Arrow

Today my grandfather turned 95. Fringe birthdays have much in common: a proper birthday cake, uncomplicated presents, and an earnest enthusiasm shared by all but the guest of honor, who’s left with a dubious sense of achievement for ageing, existing. My grandfather enjoyed all of these elements: poi, Hawaiian fish, birthday cake, ice cream, and the company of my mom and dad, who are visiting Na'alehu. It is his first birthday without his wife.

Today, also, I learned that my friend's father passed away.

Impermanence should be a familiar concept by now. Watching Disney’s 1957 version of Old Yeller on our brand new VCR in the ‘80s, I could not get over the fact that this dog—this dog playing Old Yeller—was surely dead by now. I was seven years old when I reached into my hamster’s cage, only to feel the chilling contrast of rigor mortis beneath his soft fur. I caught a glimpse of his face: a twisted rictus of shock frozen in time. My father, The Cleaner, stoically wrapped Hammy’s body in a plastic bag from Target as I helplessly looked on. Trash Day was Thursday. Every day after school I'd run to the side of the house and surreptitiously open the big garbage bin to find him nestled between the plastic bottles and discarded mail, meticulously torn into even strips to safeguard our privacy. I wept silently as I held him in my hands and whispered promises of seeing him and caring for him again, until the trash men finally came to take him away.

Perhaps it has more to do with solipsistic anxiety than mere mortality: an urgent need to know and prove that the people and events around me are real. On summer break from grade school, I appointed myself head of Neighborhood Watch, inspired by the menacing street signs meant to thwart criminal activity. I grabbed my Little Twin Stars notebook and mechanical pencil and hid between some shrubs in the neighbor’s yard. I checked my watch regularly and started a log of observations, reporting any suspicious behavior. I tried to remember every minute detail, quizzing myself at the end of each mission: Corpulent man with brown hair and beard emerged from garage at 3:32 PM and walked to the mailbox after which event? What sort of shoes did he have on? and so forth. After family gatherings and dinner parties, I felt instantly bereft once the house fell silent. As my parents accompanied the departing guests outside and heaped bags of leftovers into parked cars amidst hearty protests and laughter, I lingered behind. I touched the couch to feel the fading body heat emanate from the rumpled indentations in the cushions. I felt around until—like hot tea or ice cubes left out overnight—the fabric adjusted to room temperature. The visit became just another memory, with tangible evidence rapidly dissolving all around me.

I wanted desperately for time to stand still. I watched longingly as Evie Garland froze time on “Out of This World.” I measured time not in minutes or hours, but in intervals between memorable, delightful events. Looking back was a big part of what I looked forward to: the closest I could ever get to constructing my own time machine.

Strange Fruit

My Five-Day Vacation from the World kicked off last Friday night with a Richard Linklater double feature: Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. I approached them with the curious anticipation of a blind date: expecting the quotidian schlock, but hoping for that elusive shock. Perhaps having baggage (or: being older) is a prerequisite for appreciating every stolen glance, guarded revelation, and nuanced emotion in the sequel. There are certain films that live vividly in my mind, mostly due to subject and timing alone: Annie Hall and Swingers after the big breakup, Dogfight because I felt like an ugly outsider in high school, and Amélie during the final throes of a withering relationship. Beautifully crafted and standing firmly on merit alone, Before Sunset found me just in time.

Before Sunrise delivers the expected: capturing the euphoria of that rare, spontaneous connection between two people. It’s heavy with dialogue, but the good kind: “You know, I believe if there's any kind of God, it wouldn't be in any of us. Not you, or me...but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone—sharing something. I know; it's almost impossible to succeed, but...who cares, really? The answer must be in the attempt.”

Linklater had so many opportunities to turn Before Sunset into a mawkish and meaningless exercise. Its lingering shots and real-time structure set a delicate stage for conversation rife with emotional restraint, frustration, and longing. And although there’s only a bisou-bisou greeting and a protracted embrace throughout the entire film, Before Sunset is intensely more visceral and titillating than its predecessor. In the minutiae, Jesse and Celine have grown and evolved, and yet their essence hasn’t changed. Celine reflects on the follies of youth: “I guess when you're young, you just believe there'll be many people with whom you'll connect. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.” What she says later in the car scene is both raw and breathtaking in its defiant vulnerability. The film closes beautifully. Like eavesdropping time travelers, we’re given a candid glimpse into an extraordinary day in the lives of two people experiencing a bit of magic, that little space in between.