How Sweet To Be An idiot

How Sweet To Be An Idiot – Neil Innes

If you've ever been on an international flight to the USA you've seen it: the Visa Waiver every tourist must fill in during the flight. ‘Do any of the following apply to you?’ the form asks, before listing a number of inquiries after your health and other criminal records. Anyone who answers ‘Yes’ to one or more than one question in the list may be refused admission into the United States, announces the form. Forget about any moral objections you might have against these questions. Never mind whether people who suffer from an infectious disease or mental illness (Question A) do or do not deserve a break. I raise an eyebrow at Question C: ‘Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage; or in terrorist activities; or genocide; or between 1933 and 1945 were involved, in any way, in persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies?’

Who, except maybe for the syphilitic mush-for-brain Question A refers to, would ever answer ‘Yes’ to that question? Forget about the two cantankerous Nazi’s still walking this earth in need of a flight attendant to tick off the box next to the questions, since they haven’t physically been able to draw inside the lines since 1987. ‘Nein, nein, nein! I said Yes! Verdammt noch mal!’

I wonder what they instruct new recruits in random Al Qaeda boot camps in Jemen today. ‘Future martyrs, gather round for a second and listen carefully. We have come upon a discovery. Every tourist on a flight to the land of the rising debt has to fill out this questionnaire. That saddens my heart with the might of a thousand wolves howling at a full Afghan moon. And it also really sucks, since we may be terrorists, but we are not hypocrites. We do not fib. Surely, we do not have to go around presenting our enemies with any information on how and when we would like to reorganize their capitalist society into a mere figment of a true virgin’s imagination; but when asked, we shall not lie about it. We are, after all, uncompromising militants, not whimsical pretenders. So when asked to fill out this form, you are to answer truthfully.’

The instructor ignores the murmurs of incredulity and concern rising among the ranks.

He continues, ‘Luckily, we have discovered something else. See, it says right there: if you answer “Yes” to any one or more questions, you may be refused admission. Not: you will be refused. We think the bark of the heavyset popcorn eaters is worse than their bite.’ He has it on good authority that this form is merely part of the extreme adventure he signed them all up for when he bought the tickets. All is well with the world.

The Fun Lovin' Criminal

The Fun Lovin’ Criminal – Fun Lovin’ Criminals

‘It’s a Glock. Not the one on the left. The pink one, on the right. The left one is the fake. You can tell by the extraction mechanism, see, it’s in the wrong place.’ The bedraggled looking guy sitting next to us on the W train from South Ferry to midtown sounds pretty convincing. Of course he isn’t talking to me. He is addressing his friend, an equally frazzled looking middle aged man who is nodding slowly in agreement. They’re both terribly pale. The younger guy has that haunted, haunting look in his eyes that either indicates he’s been on the lam for weeks, maybe months, or that he really shouldn’t have taken that last line of speed this morning. Or maybe both. The gummy spit in the corners of his mouth suggests he’s been up for a while – I’m thinking 36 hours at least.

The men are discussing an ad on the train for New York City gun control. Gun control (or lack thereof) is a pretty big thing in the US. The right for citizens to carry around a weapon designed to kill is more constitutional than the right for any citizen to marry the person they love. Any idiot can buy guns and bullets at Wal-Mart. Same sex sweethearts can get married in exactly 6 out of the 50 states that unite America. Gun control laws vary by state – much like same-sex marriage laws. For example, there are few gun stores in New York; there are plenty of gun stores (preferably right next to liquor stores) in Florida. Of course, I would be surprised if there is a single state in the USA that actually denies individuals their constitutional right to carry a gun in some form or other (both Chicago and Washington, D.C. have tried to ban handgun possession altogether, but those decisions are under attack for violating the Second Amendment) – much unlike same-sex marriages. Today, you can only marry your same-sex partner in Iowa, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Massachusetts and – since March 2010 – Washington. All other 44 US states deny their citizens that civil right – including New York.

In 2006, 30,892 people died a gun-related death in the States – that means 10.36 of every 100,000 citizens (un)intentionally died by the bullet in that year.
Let’s assume for a moment that gays and lesbians live equally spread throughout the country (which I am sure they don’t); that would mean in the same year 10.36 of every 100,000 citizens died in a shooting incident, 88,000 out of every 100,000 same-sex citizens could not get married (in 2006, gays and lesbians could not yet get married in Washington, but they could still get married in California. Thanks, Austrian Oak, for setting them straight).

Still, better to have our citizens be single than dead, New York State must have figured. And after all, the LGBT lobby is more colorful than it is powerful – it’s just not easy trying to win a battle with kindness, common sense and civil rights on your side. Either way, New York put its money on gun control rather than same-sex marriage. Problem is, now they have to face the lobby that stands to protect the freedom and right to carry a gun, the National Rifle Association (NRA). The NRA might not be as colorful as the gay and lesbian rights lobby, it is considerably more powerful – remember, these guys are all packing.

Noticeably, the former president of the NRA was Charlton Heston. Charlton Heston, the man who was continuously prancing around all hot, sweaty and shirtless in front of men in skirts in Ben Hur. The man who fell in love with a monkey in Planet of The Apes – again, running around mostly shirtless, this time in front of hairy men in leather numbers. That Charlton Heston. Not only did he have what media call a ‘turbulent gay history’ off-screen; he was a vehement advocate for civil rights in his day. And above all that, the man apparently also knew how to pull a trigger. He’s the man who told gun-control advocates, You will have my gun when you can pry it ‘from my cold, dead hands.’ How could the gay and lesbian rights lobby have let him get away? He would have turned that shit right around for them. I can see the combined NRA/GLBT slogans now: We Have A Right To Carry and Marry; Bullets Don’t Discriminate, Why Should We?; Let’s All Shoot Till Death Do Us Part! Or something like that.
But alas, Charlton Heston is cold and dead, and here we are, looking at a gun control ad on a Manhattan train.

The poster in the car depicts two guns – one real and one fake. The ad states that in New York it is illegal to paint a real gun to look like a toy, and it’s illegal to sell a toy gun that looks real. The gimmick is that the gun you think is real (a black, mean looking one) is actually not. The gun that looks like the toy is the real gun. And apparently, the real gun is a Glock.
It’s hard not to overhear the guys talk. For one, the car is empty but for seven people: the two of them, a middle aged man in a mohair suit, two handsome twenty-somethings and my friend Ilse and I. On top of that, the guys are really loud. They seem very excited to finally get a chance to share their experiences with the wonderful world of handguns with a bunch of commuting squares.

‘Man, it’s a pretty bad faker, too,’ the guy continues. ‘See that, it doesn’t even have a hammer cock.’ He tugs at his friend’s sleeve and points a trembling finger at the poster. The American flag embroidered on the friend’s sleeve wrinkles for a second, then jumps back into shape when the guy lets go.
- ‘Yeah,’ the sleeved friend says. He’s not much of a talker. He seems to be more of a silent nodder. Before he dropped out, his high school peers probably voted him something like ‘Most likely to punch people in the throat without warning.’ The strong, silent, violent type.
In fact, both guys look like they would shoot Charlton Heston in the face without hesitation if they thought he was gay – or just because. Not only do they look like they carry guns, they look like the only thing they have ever registered is 101 ways to file off a serial number.

- ‘Which one is real? Not the one you think,’ the guy parrots the ad’s slogan. ‘Stupid ad. It’s totally obvious which one is real. It’s the Glock. The one the right, see? That’s the real one. They painted it pink, see, so that it looks like a toy gun, but it’s really the real gun.’ The guy’s clenched jaw twitches. He’s jabbing his finger in the direction of the pink gun.
- ‘Yeah,’ says the sleeve.
- ‘Look, see, you see how it’s all square?’ The guy can’t sit still any longer. He leaps up to the ad and starts outlining the shape of the pink gun with his trembling finger. ‘That’s your typical Glock shape right there. See the ribs here? There’s just no other gun that looks like a Glock.’
- ‘Yeah, I know what a Glock looks like,’ says the friend, suddenly lively. ‘It’s the gun that cops use. I know what that looks like.’

Everybody in the car is silent for a second. Then the two guys start laughing like that was the best joke in the world. The sleeve quickly glances around the car to make sure everybody heard that one. They stare down the barrels of cop guns every day of the week. And laugh in the face of them. They are so badass. Are we getting all this? We are.

I’m thinking, Damn, did these guys have actual New York City policemen pull their guns on them, and live? That’s pretty awe commanding, considering how trigger happy the NYPD is. If they’re not shooting their own, they are happy to empty their Glocks on mental patients armed with skillets.
Being cornered by New York’s finest and live to tell the tale means one of three things: you are really dead; it really didn’t happen; or you are really, ridiculously badass. I glance at the guys. It’s hard to tell what category they are.

The two handsomes are exchanging looks that say, Next stop, we’re getting the hell outta here. Handsome #1 grabs Handsome #2 by the hand. They’re ready to flee. The middle aged suit tries to catch our eyes with a reassuring look – Don’t worry, everything will be alright, just stay calm. He’s ready to fight. Meanwhile, the guys get back to business.

- ‘The fake one’s a Beretta. See the way the barrel comes out a bit and it has this little nubby bit on the bottom?’ the guy lectures on.
- ‘Yeah.’
- ‘But it’s way too detailed. That’s how you can see it’s a plastic replica and not the real thing. The Glock on the other hand is already made of plastic. So it looks fake. But it isn’t.’
- ‘Yeah, I know.’

The guy continues to point out characteristics of the guns. He suddenly reminds me of my old high school geography teacher, who would trace and talk just like that, only not about guns but about economic and cultural borderlines across a map of the world he pulled from the classroom ceiling. The only thing this guys needs is a ruler.

By now we have all exchanged glances in the car. I realize that both Ilse and I are actually sitting up straight; we paying attention like we’re back in class. If there’s information to be had, we automatically tune in – badass or not. Besides, it’s good to know a little bit about guns when you live in a big city. You never know when you might need it to tell the hit man from the blank. Bring on the knowledge! The two handsomes and the suit have also recognized the educator inside the clenched jaw. And just like that, the mood in the car changes completely.

The guy notices the change. He realizes that, in order to put fear back in our model citizen hearts, he needs to step up his game. He can’t have us think he’s all teach and no do. Think!, we see him think. Think!
- ‘Yeah, and, see that little trigger safety next to the trigger? That really slows you down. You have to push that first or else you can’t pull the trigger. Man, I hate that shit.’

Everybody in the car is silent for a second. And then the five of us burst out laughing. Like that would have ever stopped Charlton Heston.

I'm Waiting For The Man

I’m Waiting For The Man – Velvet Underground

Yesterday I went snowboarding, for the first time in my life. At Hunter Mountain, a place ‘dedicated to creating mountain memories, one smile at a time’ – that’s right. These past weeks, the Winter Olympics have been presenting the world with smiling professionals, the white of their teeth only outshone by the whites of their eyes as they effortlessly fly down the Vancouver mountainsides in pursuit of the gold.
Sure, the Olympics have also presented us with spectacular crashes, making for great sports TV, but so far, the athletes that somersaulted when they should have slalomed jump back up from their wipeouts disappointed but unscathed, tousled thumbs up. Winter sports are loads of easy-going fun! Snow is a welcoming, happy place to fall into! The fastest competitors beam at the cameras as their challengers at the top of the slope are lining up for their share of the joy, determined to avoid the snow angel traces left on the run.

Since yesterday I have learned two things.
First, that snowboarding is ruthless. I took a beating on the baby slope. It wasn’t pretty. I mean, I’m not the world’s most physical girl. I’m as clumsy as they come, but I had never imagined to be bested by a three degree incline. For every one time I got up, I was knocked down twice.

The thing is: a snowboard has the disposition of a very, very disgruntled bull. Riding it is like being roped onto the back of an angry, accident-prone rhinoceros in an uncharacteristically cold climate. Every time you think you might be on the verge of gaining any control, it tries to throw you off, either catapulting you into the trees or driving you into the snow – meaning, a tightly packed wall of white. ‘Don’t fight the board’, my sweetheart – a former semi-professional boarder, so he knows these things – advises. ‘You have to feel the board. Only by letting the board take you for a ride can you learn how to ride it.’ That’s all very Zen, but what it means is this: I either struggle with the board, and fall on my face; or I surrender to the board, and fall on my ass. I’m screwed either way.

I have also learned that when it comes to falling, snow is not a happy place to plummet into; once, maybe, but certainly not twenty-seven times in a row. It is not soft and fluffy, like bunnies; it is unyielding and impregnable, like the Berlin Wall. At some point, your tail bone feels like it stuck its head inside a church tower bell right when three full grown monks started pulling the ropes to chime it. It actually rings. After a while, your tail bone just feels like it has liquefied. It turns the texture of Jell-O. You won’t know whether it is sweating, or crying, or bleeding, or all of the above. And you won’t want to know.

Today, as I am being tenderly introduced to a string of muscles that I didn’t even know were allowed in a healthy body, I realize that snowboarding is not unlike trying to change your visa status. The more you try to gain some level of control on the process, the more you get slapped around.

I went to the downtown Department of Homeland Security last October, for information and advice on how to change my status from a B2 (tourist) to a J2 (dependent status, meaning you are married to a J1 visa holder – that would be my sweetheart). I made an appointment; I surfed the web for forms, and printed them all; I made copies of all the things I thought would be important to include – my marriage certificate, my passport. All I needed was the answer to my main question: is this application complete and if not, what else do I need make it so?

The short and corpulent lady behind the desk doesn’t get it. ‘How can I help you?’ she starts. I say, ‘I want to apply for a status change from B2 to J2, and I was wondering exactly what forms I need to fill out to do that.’
- ‘What do you mean?’
- ‘I mean, I am a B2 visa holder now, but I got married to a J1 visa holder, and that means I am eligible for a J2 dependent status. I want to change my status. How do I do that?’

The quadrangle lady looks at my visa. ‘But your visa has not expired yet!’
- ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I do not want to extend my current visa; I want to change my status. The sooner I change my status, the sooner I can start applying for a social security number and find a job.’
- ‘But it is only October now,’ the lady replies. ‘Your visa will not expire until January 2010.’
- ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I do not want to extend my current visa; I want to change my status.’
- ‘To what?’ the lady says.
- ‘A J2.’
- ‘Why would you want a J2? Your B2 hasn’t even expired yet!’ the lady says.

This could take a while. Unfortunately, the lady does not have a while. With ninety-nine more schmucks standing in line behind me, and a coffee break coming up, she decides she really doesn’t need this shit right now. ‘What forms did you bring?’ she sighs. I show her the forms I found online: I printed everything that said anything about changing statuses. ‘Fill out this one. If you have any further questions: everything you need to know is in the form.’ Her chubby fingers snatch up one of the forms spread out before me. She squeezes the pages so violently I can almost hear them sigh. When she lets go, I see dimples where her knuckles should be. ‘And make sure you pay the fee, if you want your application to be processed.’ She draws a clumsy circle around an amount on one of the crippled pages.

- ‘Are you sure this is the right form?’ I try again. ‘I just plucked it off the internet because it mentions J1 visa applications. It doesn’t mention J2 anywhere. Is this is the form I need?’
- ‘Read the form, everything is in there. I am glad I have answered all your questions. Have a nice day. Next!’ she wraps it up. And before I know it, I’m back on the street with no clue what to do.

So I fill out the form the lady pointed out, add all the documents the form tells me to include, write an accompanying letter, pay the $ 300 fee and send it all to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) somewhere in Vermont.

October turns to November; December comes and goes. With January, a blue letter arrives. It is a notice from the USCIS somewhere in Vermont, stating that the evidence submitted with my form is insufficient. Apparently, I have neglected to enclose a rather essential form, the Certificate that states that I am actually eligible for the so coveted Exchange Visitor Status, to be filled out by the J1 visa holder. Why is this the first time I hear of the existence of such a form?

Today it’s February 22 2010, the day after my first snowboarding experience. I smell like a giant breath mint from the royal coat of tiger balm I rubbed on every sore spot. It’s been well over a month and a half since I mailed USCIS the missing certificate of eligibility, and well over three and a half months since I first put my application in motion. I have been given the runaround by visa managers on the perpetual verge of a nervous breakdown; I have been put on endless hold; whenever I was put through to a government official I couldn’t water board them into sharing any information – USCIS won’t even tell me if my application is complete. ‘It has not been 60 days since we have received you certificate, ma’am. Your application is being processed in Vermont,’ they keep repeating until I thank them for their time, and hang up. I give up. I surrender. I am learning. I’ll wait.

They make it look so easy on TV: in Coming To America, Eddy Murphy is legally working before his royal penis even has a chance to get dirty again. You never hear anybody on The Godfather complain about being put on hold by Immigration Services. I bet the Corleones never had to teeth-clench their way through fifteen minutes of canned symphonic rock. Maybe Marlon Brando made Immigrations an offer they couldn’t refuse. Maybe Al Pacino convinced them never to take sides against the family again – ever. Either way, it’s welcome to America – make yourselves at home.

Ah, good old pre-9/11 USA. Where underprivileged Czechoslovakian girls could grow up to be Secretary of State, and an Austrian Oak could morph into a Californian Governator. I don’t think Arnold Schwarzenegger or Madeleine Albright had to grind their way through the same sluggish procedure as I do. Somehow I doubt if they ever spent days turning into weeks turning into months of waiting around. I’m pretty sure Albert Einstein, Irving Berlin, or Ang Lee, or Martina Navratilova, for that matter, were never taken for a ride by Immigration Services. I guess it helps when you can demonstrate an actual talent of sorts. For certain, they never had to deal with any xenophobic discouragement policy of Homeland Security – that institute is very post-9/11.

Maybe living in America was simpler back then; maybe people were just smarter than I am. Maybe they were naturals, who intuitively knew how to fly down the slopes of the Grand Slalom of Immigration Services. As in snowboarding, learning how to be in control of the system is probably a skill that can be acquired. Maybe everybody gets smacked around the first couple of tries. Maybe you forget about all the beatings the second you’ve made it all the way down the mountainside. I don’t know. All I know is that, until I master any skill, I had better get used to being taken for a ride.

Brain Damage

Brain Damage – Pink Floyd

Winter in America is cold. And yes, I just keep growing older. For the second year now, I have been bracing myself for seasonal impact much in the way a toddler plays hide and seek: I sit tight, cover my eyes, and think the cold won’t ever find me. Of course it always does. Winter in America is cold. I know the tune. And yes, I wish I could have known enough of winter in America to leave winter in America alone. But how could I have known it was so different from any Dutch winter I have skated through so far? How was I to know that winter in America relates to my kind of winter much in the way the actual act of giving birth relates to what most mothers tell you about it, after the fact?

Mothers rarely mention the pain – of delivering a child, I mean. Sure, they’ll tell you it hurts, or even that it really hurts, but then they gloss over it saying they forgot all about that the second they held their newborn baby in their arms. Cheeks glowing in soft focus, light beads of sweat on otherwise fresh temples. No blood anywhere or mucus. Nobody tells you giving birth can hurt so bad that when the doctor needs to carve your most private flesh in order to help the baby come out, he cuts you in the middle of a contraction, you know, because when you’re in the middle of a contraction the pain is so nasty you won’t even notice someone is ripping your vagina to pieces. Nobody tells you that you pee and crap all over the place in the process, something you and your sphincter probably won’t even take in because you’re too busy not fainting while hanging onto your shredded sanity. What I’m trying to say is, people never really tell you anything worthwhile about things that matter.

So here I am, caught in mid-winter New York City, with no information to go on that is even remotely reliable. Rockefeller Ice Rink and Macy’s Holiday Windows be damned! New York winters aren’t fun and cozy. They’re just plain nasty. It’s not all that cold in the city, really. I spent Christmas in Canada last year – that was cold. New York temperatures don’t even come close to minus 40; your hair doesn’t freeze from just looking out the window.
No, New York winter is wicked in a different way. For one, the incessant wind is so vile it cuts off your breath – which is the only reason you don’t actually hear people moan when they are forced to go outside. But I expected all that. I cast aside accounts the likes of Come on it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together as rather implausible a long time ago (even if it is Ella Fitzgerald singing it). I warmed, instead, to tales that at least heed a warning, like Oh the weather outside is frightful (thank you Dean Martin, for telling it like it is). Still, I was quite underprepared for the grimmer upshot of New York winter.

It started with me showing all my usual signs of wintry weather: the glowing cheeks, the numbness in my toes, the stinging in my fingers, the tingling in my ears – nothing new there. I am one of those people who are prone to flushing cheeks, cold noses, icy fingers and arctic toes, even in the summertime. In winter my body tends to act like a tree: it tries to shed my outer extremities. They’ll sprout back up in spring! What makes New York winters unbearable is this new and unexpected feature I’ve acquired. When temperatures drop in New York City, I become electric. And I mean real static. You know how your hair gets electric when you rub balloons off your sweater and then hold them next to your head? I have that. Only, I don’t just get electric when I rub balloons off my sweater, but all the time. And not only am I electrically charged (with all the nuisance of shirts sticking to my hair, my body sticking to my dresses and scarves sticking to hair, body, shirts and dresses alike); every time I touch anything, the static releases – electrocuting me.

I am subject to these micro scale electrocutions where ever I go. I get up from the couch and touch the oven – I zap myself. I walk to the bathroom and turn on the light – I get zapped again. I put on my shoes and open the cabinet door – a jolt. I turn on the kitchen tap – zap. My sweetheart gets up from the couch and kisses me – I zap my lips. I get up from the couch to kiss my sweetheart – I zap my lips again (how does that work?!). A fingerful of cheesecake – it's electrifying. I touch the shower curtain as I’m taking a shower – I'm shocked. I open a window – I scare the pigeons off our balcony as I catch a jolt. I take down the bed sheets – not only do I zap myself, but the crackle and hiss of the pillow cases I’m holding is so ominous that I daren’t go near the laundry bag, let alone touch the doorknob. I can’t wear my headphones when I put on my coat or when I put laundry in the machine – I’ll zap myself in the ears. I plug in my phone – zap. I pick my nose – you get the idea.

At first, I thought it was kind of funny. Being static made me different. I felt special, you know, like I had some kind of superpower – albeit on infinitesimal scale. I could be Electro Girl, or Zappo The Amazing, savior of little things in need of little saving. I envisioned myself recharging AAA batteries in times of need, saving innocents whose lives depended on those very 1.5 volts; I could be an anthill heroine.

That, of course, was three months ago. By now, it is getting tiresome. I suffer from minor scale electrocution about 25 times a day. I tried to avoid touching things. I tried not touching anything metal without wearing gloves; I tried touching the wooden part of the door before touching the knob. I have learned to operate the elevator button with a padded elbow. I tried to keep my shoes on; I tried to keep my shoes off. Sometimes these things work. Mostly they don’t. I tell myself, those 1.5 volts won’t kill me. I tell myself it’s not so bad. But really, it is. It’s very bad. It’s water boarding for beginners. Constant micro-electrocution (and, worse: the constant threat of micro-electrocution) can break a girl. The worst part is nothing to do with pain – all I really experience is a mild discomfort varying from a dull twinge to a sharp little pang, depending on what I touch.

What makes it horrible is that the jolts seem to somehow reset my mind. It’s uncanny. I’ll jump up from the couch with a thought I want to write down (this can vary from a great idea for a story to a possible solution for tensions in the Middle East). As I touch my desk to sit down and start writing, I zap myself, and instantly forget what I was thinking. Not what I was doing – I remember I was getting up to write down a thought – but I forget the thought.
To salvage my possible gem, I sit back down on the couch and try to retrace my train of thought. Sometimes it works: I get a second chance to vocalize my initial idea. I jump up from the couch with this version 2.0 of the thought I wanted to write down (this time it varies from a hunch for the next phrase in a story to a possible solution for tensions in my middle back). I touch my keyboard to write it down – and I zap myself, instantly forgetting what I was thinking – again. It’s like running around in a malicious circle, a hamster wheel from hell.
I’m being micromanaged by a minuscule Nurse Ratched in the amoeba version of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.
It’s like being not quite knocked down by an invisible, painless atomic force – a butterfly, flapping its wings in Tokyo maybe. A tiny moth inside my head, tearing itty-bitty holes into the once solid fabric of my brain. Slowly evaporating it. I am being tortured in the My First Sony version of Room 101. That might not put me in a doubleplus ungood situation, but for the going 2010 free Western world standards I still feel bereft of some basic right or comfort. It can’t always have been like this. Can it?

The dry heat in our apartment must have something to do with it. My sweetheart and I tried to find ways to control our apartment’s temperature. As it turns out, we cannot turn down the heat. We cannot turn off the heat. There is no thermostat. Somewhere in the basement of our building, someone pushes the Heat On button in October, and the Heat Off button in April. We can break (not disconnect: it involves physically smashing the pipes) the heating in our apartment, but that means no more heat in any of the apartments lined up above ours – we live on the 12th floor of a 28 story building – and probably a fountain of boiling water hissing its way from the exposed pipes to our exposed faces. We are currently filling up used tin cans with water and put them inside the heaters to humidify the room. Not only is that seriously poor; it also doesn’t work. There is simply too much dry heat going on, and there is simply no way to be in command of that heat. Apart from opening the windows, there is nothing you can do.

Opening a window in winter means the city grid’s cutthroat wind will blast any coherent thought straight to eternal springtime. In addition to the blistering cold you also let in police cars and fire trucks whoop-whooping their days and nights away on the streets below, plus the black incinerator fumes from the building across the street. We are forced to keep the windows closed, and the overly heated air consequently dehydrates the place, and us, to the point where we get dry eyes, itchy skin, nosebleeds, and, in my case, become static.

So here we are, in the epicenter of the Free World, not even free to regulate our own rented heat; we are forced to share the same temperature with all the other tenants in our building. Our supers assure us there is nothing they can do. They don’t make the rules for heat. They cannot favor some tenants over others. We are not even paying extra money for all that extra heat. How can we complain? We are all equal. We shall all have the same heat. That’s the way it works. If I think I need a different level of room temperature, I will be electrocuted until I no longer know of any different kind of heat than the heat I have now.
I might, in a remote corner of my subconscious, have some recollection of a place and a time where people were free to choose their own heat level, but that recollection is obviously false and must be evaporated.

And so, here I am on this crisp clear February afternoon awaiting the winter’s biggest snow storm yet in this winter wonderland of liberal democracy. Here I lie in wait, in a country whose angry antigovernment TEA partiers are so afraid to lose their freedom that they would rather be chained to hyperbolic patriotism than succumb to an administration resembling anything remotely reminiscent of anything socialist (for any degree of socialism equals fascism and will inevitably lead, if not to straight up genocide, then at least to health care death squads kicking down our parents’ and grandparents’ doors at night). To them, my ongoing winter static and subsequent evaporation is just another Liberal Democrat’s Death by Electrocution – 1.5 volts at a time. Zap!

Television Man

Television Man - Talking Heads

The man on television, or rather, the actor portraying a Main Street barbershop owner, buries his head in his hands. His little enterprise is about to be eradicated by the superstore settling right next to his shop – in this case, a hair dresser dynasty promising its customers a six dollar haircut. The ratty looking billion dollar operator rubs his paws and polishes his whiskers in anticipation of all the virgin small town hairdos about to come his way. No insignificant business owner can compete with that!
You can see the horror toiling away at the poor barber’s face. How can he ever survive this stock market listed bottom price tsunami? Outdoor lights and running water alone cost him six dollars per customer. Luckily, our small American businessman is a cunning customer. He speeds off to Office Depot, an office supplies superstore. There, from the same mogul that saw to it that the town’s mom and pop stationery shop went bankrupt the year before, our barber buys a couple of markers and a banner, all at bottom price. He writes something on the banner, and nails it to the facade of his shop: ‘We fix six dollar haircuts.’
In the next shot, we see that the superstore next door has been shut down. The windows are boarded up. All employees are fired. Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts have pulled back their planned investments in the town. The small town barber grins a wide grin. Main Street beats Wall Street. Up yours, corporate America! And all thanks to the bottom prices at Office Depot. Thank you, corporate America!

America is a fidgeting equivocator. Or, to put it another way, America is a contradiction in terms. Or: America is paradox incarnate. It all depends who you are writing for. Fact is that, in the small town barber commercial for Office Depot, it takes the company about half a minute to come to terms with that contradiction. Office Depot (but other corporations, too, like Walmart, K-Mart, Staples, Target) advertises with large = cheap = better. Bottom prices for stationery save the little man. And little men are what make America great.
Only thing is, the Office Depot commercial simultaneously conveys to the viewer that large = cheap = bad. The demon tycoon hair dresser, stock-marketed embodiment of evil, ruins not only the small town barber, but also the little man’s hair. What was so great again about the no-competition bottom prices of super corporations? Oh, but then of course the small town barber dreams about one day ruling a stock market listed barber dynasty of his very own. What was so bad again about the no-competition bottom prices of super corporations? It’s tricky.

Television is a great place to get a front row view of exactly that American incongruity in all its naked glory. And, of all the figurative nudity on television, commercials flash it the most brazen. The forgotten zit on an otherwise touched up, fidgeting ass. Or, to put it another way, the frontal nudity, the money shot, the teabag. It all depends who you are writing for. Of course all that insightful nakedness does not apply to every commercial. Forget about the universal promotional activity of the Swiffer or l’Oréal kind.
Those commercials are the same all over the world, and the only paradox smiling you in the chest is Sarah Jessica Parker. First, the television star lets someone else be pregnant for her. Then, she takes every media opportunity to announce that her body has stayed all nice and natural – she might not be fooled into some unflattering pregnancy, but she won’t be tricked by any Botox wrapped promises either. Meanwhile, the l’Oréal commercial shows her airbrushed almost beyond recognition into something of a Sarah Jessica Marker. Anyway. If you are looking for a good round of hypocrisy, universal commercial messages made by multinationals will do, but that is not what the American paradox is about.

The clothes come off in commercials made by all-American mega companies, for the all-American people. They infallibly put their finger on that complex entity of corporations versus the individual; that battle between pursuing the gargantuan American Dream and protecting personal American values. Somehow, those colossal corporations effortlessly get away with mashing together these conflicting opposites.

Take car manufacturer General Motors. Hemorrhaging money for years, bad management, underpaid workers, overpaid non workers and skyrocketing bonuses for the suits in power. It had to go wrong. And it did. The economic crisis of the past year finally snuffed the all-American company. No to a buy-out, yes to bankruptcy and eventually the U.S. government stepped in and took over. The company’s second beginning started with ending the production of three out of their seven brands of cars, and god knows how many jobs. But still, there are a lot of General Motors cars lying on the shelves. By the end of 2009 General Motors presents their ‘bankruptcy commercial’ to the public. The end of the American Dream. Or is it? General Motors has the answer.

‘We’re not witnessing the end of the American Car. We’re witnessing the rebirth of the American Car,’ a reliable male voice assures the viewer. Onscreen, we see the company’s big city industry (a skyline, a General Motors factory, thousands of commuting workers stepping onto a train platform and crowding a metropolitan sidewalk, the car assembly line and a parking lot filled with brand new General Motors cars). The images are alternated with all that is American and good: an athlete running with a prosthetic leg; a hockey player bent double on the ice; an American football player throwing a decisive pass. Will the athlete make it to the finish line? Can the hockey player get up from the ice? Will the pass turn into a touchdown? I’m sucked in. Popcorn at hand, I’m riveted to the screen. It’s Rocky, in one minute two. Big question is: am I watching Rocky I (Stallone loses the fight, but wins the moral battle), or Rockies II trough VI (Stallone wins the fight; there is no moral battle)?

‘Reinvention is the only way we can fix this… And fix it, we will,’ the voice hums. It’s not Rocky after all. General Motors goes Yoda and Star Wars. Yoda? If anything, aren’t they more of a Darth Vader in this scenario? Or at least that one guy who’s just in it for the money? Meanwhile, onscreen: a community pulling up the wooden front facade of someone’s new home, together. A carefree family dog, its head and tongue sticking out of the carefree family car. A united soccer stadium filled with moms and pops. And then, in rapid flashes: the first landing on the moon, Mohammad Ali, a butterfly, American football players all toppled over each other on the field. ‘This is not about going out of business; this is about getting down to business,’ the voice divines.

What did we just watch? A bankrupt company blatantly putting itself on the same level as the biggest and financially most successful blockbusters in movie history. A dehumanized corporation that failed on every account, comparing itself to the brave individual – the unfortunate athlete, Rocky Balboa, Luke Skywalker. Normal guys, reaching for the stars; who lose sometimes, who fall on their faces before they get back up again. But who never stop fighting for what they believe in. The little man that makes America great. The American Dream. That’s General Motors, according to General Motors.

Office Depot says that big companies are the good guys. They help the little man get rid of the big companies. Because big companies are the bad guys. General Motors says big companies and the little man are one and the same. They are Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, the guy who is only in it for the money, the robots, that hairy guy and and the gold bikini all rolled into one. That’s the American paradox in a nutshell. The larger than life corporation that worships the little man as it wrings his little neck. The little man cursing the mega company that ruined his Main Street stores – every weekend, in the mega check-out line. The little man who’d rather go bankrupt than get rid of the superstores and pay more than bottom price for his commodities. Who shakes one fist at the dirty money of Wall Street, while the other tries to grab a share.

Question is: who in this story is trying to break the little man’s back? The government? Government control is one of the biggest fears in the heart of the American. No more taxes! But in his State of the Union of January 2010, Barack Obama pointed out how it is exactly the little man who has profited from government interventions in the past year.
Wall Street? But Wall Street provides the little man with cheap stationery, and cheap haircuts and bottom price clothes and groceries and insurances. Wall Street is what keeps the little man alive in a time when all financial bets are off.
It isn’t the government, or Walmart, or Wall Street that's closing down Main Street – Main Street is closing down Main Street. And television man has known it all along.

Postcards From Downtown

Postcards From Downtown - Dayna Kurtz

US post offices are the assholes of the world: all things indigestible go through here. US post offices are the assholes of the world, and constipated at that. There is always a line at the US post office, a large intestine sluggishly snaking from door to windows. It doesn’t matter if you come in early in the morning, or around lunch time, or just before closing time; there is always a line and somehow the line never gets any shorter. For every customer trickling down the line to be called up to one of the triple glass windows, two new customers pour in.

The US post office is a place where defeat and despair reign supreme. Despair starts with the mystical amount of forms you have to fill out – for national mail, international mail, customs forms, first class, priority and express mail forms, receipts, return statements – all with form titles that are designed to not let on their meaning: who can tell the difference between the PS Form 2976 (Customs Declaration CN 22 - Reference Only: Order from MDC using PSN 7530-01-000-9833 (9/2009)) and the PS Form 2976-A (Customs Declaration and Dispatch Note CP 72 - Reference Only: Order from MDC using PSN 7530-01-000-9834 (5/2009))?
I sure as hell can’t. And neither can the dismal looking local postcard senders scuttling to and fro around me. Everyone is trying to catch the eye of any employee, helplessly hoping to find some kind of salvation there. But to no avail.
I have learned to take one copy of every form on display in the racks spread out in the post office, and fill them all out while I stand in line. Every single one of them. Just in case. The employee behind the counter will sigh as they flip through them: ‘Don’t need that one, don’t need this one... I’ll take this one and this one... This’ll do, too, and could you sign this one for me please?’
The timid humiliation that goes with your paper overkill beats the old ‘Looks like you forgot to fill out your Domestic or International Claim’ or ‘I really need a Return Receipt for International Mail on this one’, before being sent back, unforbidding, to the racks without a clue as to what was just said, but still holding your mail. And with the prospect of having to get back in line. Defeated. Capitalist bureaucracy is a thing of beauty.

I have been standing in said line for about two minutes when a large man in a hooded hunter’s jacket and a blue shirt shuffles up behind me. I look back and nod in recognition – I am, indeed, the end of the line. Or the beginning! I think, optimistically. The man has undefined stains of something greasy all over his chest. Oddly enough, he’s wearing a pair of perfectly pressed dress pants, over a dull but clean pair of brown shoes, the laces untied. The guy is so big that he probably hasn’t seen his feet in a while, and I can imagine he gave up on trying to reach his shoes to tie the laces. Why not go for loafers? I wonder vaguely. Then again, I hate loafers. Besides, it’s January. Either way, the untied laces don’t seem to bother the man. For one, his feet look to enormously solid-look to even notice the lack of counterpressure, and besides, the rest of the man has other things to be concerned about. I can hear him humming something behind my back. His hum slowly gets louder, until I can make out what he is saying.

‘Is your pack-age safe to mail? Hee hee! Are you sure you have not packed any haz-ard-ous mat-ee-rials? Mer-cury, fuel, fire-works… Match-es, batteries, explos-iiiii-ves? Hee hee hee! Is your pack-age safe-to-mail?’ He almost sing-songs it, like he’s the announcer next to a shooting gallery in an amusement park. I look at him again. His eyes are magnified, shining soft and helpless through big rimmed, old fashioned glasses like the ones my dad used to wear in the late seventies. He sports a cultivated little beard – not in corresponding seventies style, as you might expect, but something professionals call a Vandyck. The mustache part of Post Office Guy’s Vandyck is completely grey; the goatee is grey with streaks of ginger. His jacket is big enough to protect the world.

As I look away, the man comes up with all kinds of materials that may be hazardous to pack. ‘Hair-spray, perfume, lighters, nail polish… Lip-stick, shoe laces…’ He can probably do this all day, and from the sounds of it, he plans to. I look around me. The other people in line are actively and grimly ignoring the man. They stare at a point right in front of them, clutching their envelopes and pressing their packages tight to their chest. The guy has begun to sway softly on his feet, like an old fashioned airplane propeller about to be swung into action. I can feel his fervor radiating, pulsing, pushing up on me from behind. He is talking louder and louder now – but he doesn’t do anything. He’s just a guy waiting in line at a US post office, like the rest of us.

My eyes wander to the red warning sign on one of the glass counter windows, informing visitors that anyone who attempts an armed robbery of this post office risks a sentence of up to 25 years in prison. The glass windows are bullet resistant. I know this because one of my friends who works at a bank told me. Bank windows and post office windows are bullet resistant.
The friend’s bank was robbed a little while ago. She was behind the counter when a hooded guy walked up and shoved a note under the slot. ‘Gimme 20 + 10’, it said. My friend had to read it twice. At first she thought the man must be a mute, so she looked him in the eyes and asked, ‘What is your bank account number? And can I see your card or ID?’ But the guy didn’t respond. Maybe he is deaf as well, my friend thought, ever ready to help. So she tried again, deliberately and carefully articulating the words this time. But then the guy opened his big coat ever so slightly to reveal a tiny gun. And just like that, she was in the middle of an armed bank robbery.

My friend then took one 20 dollar note and one 10 dollar note out of the register; she pushed it under the slot, towards the guy, folded her arms and waited. The guy was so taken aback that he took the money and ran out on the street, with 30 bucks in his pocket. Walked in a customer; ran out wanted for armed robbery, with nothing to show for it but 25 years in jail. All because he didn’t know how to spell out a proper money demand.

My friend shrugged it off: the teller's windows are bullet resistant. I looked it up. Bullet resistant is not quite bullet proof. A regular bullet from a regular pistol will not penetrate the glass – probably. No guarantees there – and nobody seems to consider the possibility of ricocheting bullets, bouncing off the windows and straight into the line, hitting unsuspecting customers standing behind the robber who were never even aimed at. Machine guns or sawed off shotguns are, of course, a different story altogether. They’re harder to hide under your hoodie, though. The double barrel makes for a more conspicuous stroll. The point is, the glass is bullet resistant; but the windows of these bank and post office counters only start from the waist up. The lower half of the counters is made of pressed chipboard that pretty much crumbles under the well aimed kick of a sturdy boot; I don’t think it can withstand a bullet, however ordinary the pistol that shoots it.

What are bank or post office employees instructed to do, in case of a shoot-from-the-hip type robbery? To duck for cover isn’t going to cut it: anything aimed below the glass, like a clumsy warning shot, is likely to penetrate the chipboard. Subsequently, to duck for cover on the floor behind the window is to risk getting shot in the head. Maybe all bank employees are trained to jump up as high as they can in the case of anyone shooting up the place. Procedure: (1) try to make it above glass level. (2) Jump real high, and hope for the best. Maybe the ideal bank employee is a paraplegic who at least won’t feel any shots shredding the bones of his legs behind the board as he reaches for the silent alarm button. Or better still, the ideal employee would be an amputee. No legs at all dangling in harm’s way. No expensive leap training required. All the training involves is the fastest way to screw their chairs up high, above average waist level, and stay put. And hope the robber is not toting a sawed-off shotgun, because then all bets are off.

As I am pondering below-the-waist bank security and the criminal disadvantages of illiteracy, the man behind me is swaying into a verbal frenzy. ‘Lip-stick, twee-eezers, bottled water, bottled soda, teddy bears, toy bunny rabbits… The government, Homeland Security, US Mail… All these paranoid idiots! What else will these idiots consider hazardous material?’ he shouts. ‘Lip-stick, soda water, mah-ga-ziiines… When will Mr. and Mrs. Joe Tax Payer say, We are done with this stupidity? When will they say, We have had enough of these paranoids poking and prodding around in our personal property and our personal privacy? When will they have had enough of the paranoid idiocy of these sub-Neanderthal clowns and jackasses? Hee hee! Is you pack-age safe to mail? Please make sure you do not try to send any haz-ar-dous material… Shoe laces, bunny rabbits, tweezers…’

I consider, Is this guy your average run of the mill all-bark-no-bite type of big city eccentric, or the more troublesome ‘I always giggle before I go postal’ type? Is he about to open his big coat ever so slightly to reveal a sawed off shotgun, then open fire on everyone inside the post office, starting with the post office employees? Should I yell, ‘Jump! For god’s sake, jump as high as you can!’, and hope the employees will follow my lead? But then I think, nah. If this were a man with a gun, he’d be shooting up the place by now. Instead, he’s chatting up the place.

Suddenly, one of the employees, a hefty lady, slides down from her chair behind the glass. She walks up from behind the counter area, into the public area and straight up to the line. Is she going to tell the man to shut up? I hope not. I don’t know what this guy will do if he is told to shut up already, but I am sure it won’t be pretty, gun or no gun. ‘Is there anyone in this line who just needs money orders or stamps? Anyone here, just for stamps or money orders? If you are here only to buy stamps or anybody who just needs a money order, please step out of the line and go to window 8. Window 8, only for stamps and money orders’, the lady says. The man immediately wriggles past me, and starts making his way to window 8. Other people follow in his wake, making sure he gets to the window first. They huddle up behind him. ‘No!’ commands the lady. What now? we all fret. ‘Sir, please make sure the line forms within the rope, and nowhere else.’ Somehow, a little rope has appeared, hammocked between two metal poles. At the beginning of the rope is a sign that says: This Line For Stamps And Money Orders Only. Everybody, including the guy, silently obliges. How could we have missed that sign before?
The employee behind the window asks the guy, who is still swaying on his feet, ‘What can I do for you sir?’
And just like that, the man stops swaying. ‘I will have twenty stamps and a money order for 30 dollars, please,’ he gurgles.
‘– Debit or credit?’ the employee asks.
‘Credit, please’, the man informs the employee, his mustache trembling.
‘– Anything else I can do for you?’
‘No, that is all, thank you. Thank you.’ And off he goes, all smiles, stamps in hand. Off, no doubt, to wrap up some hazardous materials to mail. Lipstick, teddy bears, tweezers… Suddenly I’m pretty sure I forgot to grab an essential form before I got in line. That means I will be stuck for at least another half hour in this US post office – did I mention it’s the asshole of the world?

Little Shop Of Horrors I – Everything Is Free

Everything Is Free – Gillian Welsh

I can’t believe I am getting all this excitement on a Tuesday morning, and for only two bucks. Sure, the sign at the entrance of New York's Museum of Natural History states you can buy an adult ticket for the grown-up rate of sixteen dollars; but my friend Victor from Amsterdam and his girl Tara (they’re in New York after spending Thanksgiving together with her family in New Jersey) have inside information. They have taken me here to see the Cape York meteorite. It is 4.5 billion years old; so heavy that its supports go through the floor, straight down to the solid rock beneath the building; and best of all, you’re allowed to touch it. Or, as Victor happily suggests, lick it. So off we go, to the museum, to go lick a meteorite.

Tara used to live in the city for years, and, with her being a Jersey girl and all, she knows things that your average NYC newbie doesn’t.
For instance, that the entrance fee for the Museum of Natural History is not mandatory. It is a suggested fee, as the small print on the sign informs the more perceptive visitor. If you wish to make a smaller donation, all you have to do is make your wish known at the cash register. So we decide to get in for less. Or rather, Victor and Tara decide, and I scurry after them with glowing cheeks and that immediate mixture of envy, embarrassment and girl-crush I tend to get whenever there’s a take charge woman around who isn’t afraid to ask for things that are perfectly legal – albeit unorthodox, and, in the long run, quite possibly devastating for (in this case) the museum’s very existence. We can’t just walk in and not pay, I shriek. What if everybody decides not to pay the full amount? What if nobody would pay for anything anymore ever again? What if the museum goes broke and we’re totally to blame? What if the cashier spits in our faces for disrespecting a trillion years of natural history? What if the line behind us turns into a stampeding vigilante, looking for literal payback? Show me a random cluster of people and I'll show you an angry mob waiting to happen.

I struggle to sugarcoat my hesitation with morality, so I don’t have to consider the fact that, for all my exterior boldness, I am a coward at heart. Especially when it comes to buying things. I am one of those people who will pay full price for anything, no questions asked. I never bargain for discounts, even when stuff is clearly damaged or broken. I don’t have any particular ideology to back up my just-pay-and-get-it-over-with mentality, nor any deeply rooted childhood trauma type of explanation. I am generally not afraid to earn the scorn or contempt of strangers. I’m not easily embarrassed; I seldom back away from any opportunity to make a fool of myself in public. I just can’t get myself to go up to a vendor and say, ‘Hey, what do you say I take this junk off your hands for half?’ Just thinking about it makes my ears burn. I’d rather shoot myself in the kneecap; I can’t believe Tara and Victor would have the bravado to just go ahead and barter, without so much as blinking.
It’s simple, Tara figures. She’s an underpaid artist who likes to sniff some culture every once in a while. If she had the money, she’d pay. But she doesn’t, so what’s a poor girl to do? Just because people can’t afford the financial hemorrhage it takes to witness the Cape York meteorite, doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to see it. Or does it?
I got nothing. My friends shrug the shrug of the brave and free, pick up their pace, and trot, heads up high and backs straight, to the nearest cash register – with me whimpering in their wakes. Tara tells the lady behind the counter we would like to pay less than the suggested fee. The lady merely asks us how much we are willing to donate; when Tara puts six bucks for the three of us on the counter top, she takes them and asks if we would like a floor plan. We take one and off we go – full speed ahead to the meteorite!

For about two minutes, I am light-headed with angst. I feel like I have committed some kind of cultural crime, an educational burglary. I am swindling my way back to the origin of man! But after a diorama or two the sensation wears off, and makes way for giddy, glorious curiosity to see the miracles of life this museum has on offer. I promise myself that, next time, I’ll pay double. For now, I plan to absorb it all. So here I am: watching Victor as he's about to lick the Cape York meteorite at two bucks a pop. Good times!