Monkey Maids: or, the Roommate/Primate Experiment; Pt. 2

I managed to get most of the horde with paying jobs off to their respective engagements without too many hitches. The woman who’d rented the spider monkey showed up half an hour early, however, while I was coaxing the macaque into the shower with Fructis cream. He’d calmed down to a fairly pliable point when suddenly the buzzer went off at the front door. We both froze for a few seconds, then the macaque started screeching and grabbed for the Fructis bottle. I clung on to it for a while but gave it up after the buzzer rang again, figuring it was best to keep the place quiet while a client was there. As I exited the bathroom I looked back to see the little bastard squirting the cream directly into his mouth. That stuff is made from fruit – can't be too poisonous.

I went out into the entryway to find a huge woman standing by the door with buzzed hair, dog tags, and a suspicious look on her face. She must have heard the commotion. “Hey, I’m Daisy,” she said, extending a hand that dwarfed my own. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. Daisy? Seriously? “I’m here for the uh, the spider monkey. For the benefit,” she said quickly, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

“Right, of course. Let me get him.” I’d turned toward the door behind me.

“Can I come?” she asked, peering over my shoulder as I cracked the door open.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” I said. “They’re all a little excitable this evening.”

She looked startled. “Excitable? What does that mean? Is there going to be a problem with the spider monkey?” She seemed to gather herself together, towering over me and looking very upset.

“No, of course not. No, the spider monkey is very sweet, well trained. There was just um, an incident earlier with some Cheez-Its, you know, and the tamarins, well, they love Cheez-Its, so you can imagine the chaos. I just don’t want them getting upset again at this point.”

She squinted her eyes in confusion and I got through the door quickly, locking it behind me. “Cheez-Its?” I heard her murmur behind me. When I retuned a moment later with a beautifully groomed and very docile spider monkey, she had her arms crossed and a set expression on her face. “What’s going on in there?” she’d demanded. “Do you have a license for this operation?”

I leveled myself with her as best I could, despite the height difference. “Of course I have a license, Daisy,” I said in my most ingratiating voice, using my winning-est smile. I wasn’t sure if this would work with Daisy, but it’s a hit with most other ladies so I figured it would be worth a try. “This isn’t some fly-by-night operation here, what do I look like to you? Some sort of nonspecialist?”

She squinted at me.

“Look at this monkey,” I continued. “Simia paniscus. Beautiful, isn’t he? I’ve been training him since he was just a baby and came in from the sugar plantation. Thank God we saved him in time. Most of his family was lost in the insecticide incident. He goes by Timmy, but only if he feels comfortable with you. He’s very amicable.”

I held him out to her and he climbed nimbly to her shoulder, where he spent a few minutes sniffing and picking through her half-inch of hair. She eyed him suspiciously. I kept bullshitting: “Only thing to watch out for is people pulling his face-fur, so be careful with that. It’ll set him off. He’s not potty trained, but he’ll tug on your hand or your hair hard when he needs to go so you can get him to a sink or a toilet. He went just a few minutes ago so he should be fine. Biggest rule is no booze. Fruit is fine, but that does not make sangria ok. Absolutely no booze. Have him back by 1:00 please. Pay then. But don’t even think of keeping him out past 1:00, he’s got a great internal clock and he’ll go nuts with the poo flinging if he’s out too late.”

She still looked confused and a tad uncertain, but she walked outside willingly enough, and I slammed the door behind her just as the primate turned back to look at me. I amaze myself sometimes. Back to the macaque.

* * * * * *

The rest of the night went smoothly. As soon as I’d gotten those with gigs off to their respective jobs, I went grocery shopping. I concluded after some consideration over blood- vs. seedless-regular oranges, that I would need some help with this operation. 17 hardly-tamed monkeys in a house would be hard work to maintain, much less make profitable. The roommate would be home soon, and it would be of the utmost importance that she be convinced to help out. This could be tricky. She didn’t always go in for my plans, but she usually tried to listen to them, at least. The girl was a close friend, mainly because she was a creative enough individual to consider the possibilities of most situations, like my suggestion a few months back that we get an apartment together. Most women I’ve been involved don’t speak to me anymore, much less listen to a word I say, but Liz had moved in and things had been ok. A little strained. But it seemed that if I could get her to just listen, and if I presented the argument right, she might be willing to try the operation with me. And, if everything went smoothly, we might have a fantastic business opportunity.

It would be difficult; an illegal business is tough to keep up under the best of circumstances, but once monkeys become involved, the degree of difficulty goes up exponentially, and the explicit agreement of all involved parties becomes essential. I’d have to soften her to the idea of monkeys in the apartment before she arrived. This could take some work. She loved animals, I knew, but she was a little resistant to change on all fronts, particularly in the last few months. She’d been withdrawn and a little bitchy ever since the shivving incident I’d gotten into on New Years.

I grabbed a kiwi and texted Liz. “U think squirrel monkeys eat kiwi? Or will the fur deter them? Mock cannibalism.” Not waiting for an answer, hoping that last message would make her think without giving away the whole story, I threw the kiwi into the cart, which was looking pretty full.

I hadn’t considered the weight of a cart full of exotic fruits until I tried to move it. There was some grunting involved, some swearing, and finally some kicking, but I got it going, at which point it picked up momentum faster than expected. Apparently the grocery store was built on a low grade hill. Before I got to the end of the produce aisle I was moving at a brisk trot behind the cart to keep up, enjoying the colors of the vegetables as I whipped by them. I grabbed a corner of the cart handle to bank the corner, trying to keep up the pace, and took off down the front aisle of the store, narrowly missing a standing display of tomato paste and whole wheat pasta on the turn. I let go of the handle and pumped my arms in a victory symbol as the cart and I sped past the amazed onlookers. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the slope we were on, so when I lifted my arms the cart took a subtle turn to the left and smashed into the gum and chocolate display by the checkout line. Fruit flew everywhere, bouncing softly as it hit the floor and the conveyor belt. The register girl started ringing the random fruit up without saying a word.

The shocked silence of the shoppers around me broke into a subdued murmur as I squatted to pick up a mango. I never did well with solo shopping trips. Last time I’d gone alone I’d come home with ten cans of Spam, which Liz insisted was ridiculous despite my insistence that the 10 for $10 sale had been a great deal. It had now been two months since I’d purchased it and we’d only eaten one Spam can. I had used another as a baseball, though, l in conjunction with a rolling pin. That had been fun. Still, I had to admit that shopping trip hadn’t worked out so well, either.
I’d have to get Liz in on the grocery shopping for the monkeys, at least, even if she didn’t want to help wash them and get them jobs every night. It wouldn’t do if I got banned from the grocery store and the monkeys starved. Liz, on the other hand, was pretty good with grocery shopping, although she was forever buying vegetarian shit and using mayonnaise.

Monkey Maids: or, the Roommate/Primate Experiment; Pt. 1

Pt. 1:

“You want a what tamarin?” The noise in the kitchen was deafening. I was screaming into the phone receiver.

“One with a mustache!” yelled the guy on the other end. “I saw one at the zoo!” We'd been trying to communicate what kind of tamarin monkey he wanted for his costume party for five minutes now, but every time I tried to calm the din around me, the primates just screeched and howled louder. In this high state of frenzy I couldn’t leave the room for fear they'd maul me or each other, so I just kept yelling to be heard over the melee.

“I told you, I don't have any fucking mustache monkeys! I don't have any! What do you want from me? I can give you a golden lion tamarin! That's it!”

Across the room, the male spider monkey swooped down into the sink from the refrigerator, sending smaller monkeys leaping out of the way and gibbering madly. The capuchin threw itself at my head – I had to duck to avoid getting a foot in the eye. It smacked into the wall and hit the ground screeching, then ran to a far corner.

“Look,” I yelled into the receiver, “either tell me you want the golden lion or get off the fucking phone; it's a madhouse in here!”

“Fine, I'll take it,” I heard him mutter as the rhesus hopped by, arms aloft, the unfortunate marmoset clinging to its head.

“Good, pick him up at eight and I’ll give you the instructions!” I slammed the phone down and finished scrawling the guy’s address. “Imbecile.”

I stood up slowly, surveying the room. The kitchen table was the source of the ruckus. I'd brought the primates some Cheez-Its as a treat an hour ago, but three boxes had only whetted the dairy-fiends' appetites and some fights had broken out over the crumbs. All traces of cheesy goodness were gone at this point, but animosity was still sparking up into violence all around me. The old comic book where I’d found the ad hadn’t mentioned the possibility of hysterical aggression over cheese products, but then I hadn’t even expected to get anyone on the phone when I’d called to order the Primate Variety Pack in the first place. It had seemed too good to be true – a comic book from the 60’s hadn’t seemed likely to deliver on its decades’ old promise of monkeys for $15.95 a piece, but here I was with seventeen monkeys fighting over Cheez-Its in my kitchen.

I was suspicious that the female spider monkey had a concussion – she'd been pushed from the ceiling fan by an overly excited Peruvian night monkey and had been shaking her head lazily for the past ten minutes, quietly petting her tail. I'd have to send the male to the lesbian charity event that night instead of her, which worried me. I hoped they had a costume or something so his genitals wouldn't be in plain view. The lesbians might not go in for it that.

In the meantime, I was faced with the daunting task of calming them down enough to get those with paying gigs cleaned up and ready to go. I spotted the golden lion tamarin, watching the madness below from inside a cabinet near the sink – he was small enough to hide from the others, and generally docile. I could probably carry him out to the bathtub without too much trouble.

I started across the room toward him, moving stealthily to avoid detection by the frenzied, screaming masses. Goddamn animals were out of control. I had to be careful. Most of them were small enough to pose little threat on their own, but in a frenzy of claws and teeth and opposable thumbs I was sure they could rip a man to pieces working in tandem. And if the spider monkeys got involved, it was all over. I had a feeling those things were vicious.

I kept my movements slow and smooth, sidling over to the golden lion tamarin, who eyed me warily from the back of the cupboard. I reached over to him and held my arm out like a perch, hoping he'd jump on, but he just stared at me. You'd think he'd have known he could trust me by now - he'd been here for a day and a half just like the others, and I had never hurt him. Well, except for the beer can incident last night, but it had only knocked him out for a few minutes, and I hadn't thought he’d figured out it had been me who threw it from across the room. But from the look he was giving me with his beady eyes, I deduced he might have given the matter some thought. Shit. I had to get him bathed and ready for his gig tonight. Had to sit on that dumbass's shoulder and accept tips for a few hours.

I wiggled my fingers like I had some food in my hand, but the golden lion was too smart for me and stayed where he was. I glanced around to be sure we hadn't drawn any attention, then grabbed him by the neck and stuffed him under my shirt to avoid detection. He chirped wildly and clawed at my stomach, but I held him firmly and made for the bathroom, his tail swinging out from under my shirt.

A few of the others looked up to see me retreating but were too busy knocking each other’s skulls on the table to care. I tried to take the golden lion out from under my shirt when we reached the living room, but he clung to my stomach with his sharp little fingernails and grabbed at my body hair with his fists.

With my free hand I turned on the bathroom sink and tried to find a lukewarm temperature while the primate scratched and bit. It was difficult to adjust two temperature knobs with a frenzied tamarin in one hand, but I kept at it until the tiny monster under my shirt grabbed hold of a nipple and twisted, at which point I dragged him away from my body with much squalling from him and swearing from me. Hoping the shock would calm him down, I shoved him under the pouring water. It didn’t, since the water was still ice cold, and I had to hold the miniature primate down with both hands to keep him from leaping onto my face.

I lathered him up with some shampoo – thinking it would be important to keep the fur glossy for customers. He resisted at first, with much gnashing of tiny teeth, but after a few moments of struggle, he gave in as the water warmed up. By the time I put him in a hand towel and rubbed him down after a thorough shampoo and rinse, he was smiling and gurgling at me like a baby. I wondered if this technique would work for the larger animals in the kitchen. It might be wise to invest in herbal teas, I thought, or in some high-dose Xanax, for expediency.

As we made our way through the living room I was happy to notice that the noise coming from the kitchen had died down. It didn’t sound exactly calm, but the hoots and clangs were subdued enough for me to hear my phone beeping in my pocket. I locked myself and the tamarin in the bedroom and resisted the urge to throw the little bastard down on the air mattress (my nipple still hurt), instead nestling him quietly amongst the blankets to keep up his good mood, and opened my phone. There was a text message from my roommate, who had been gone for a week and a half for her older sister’s wedding in California. “Weddings r gr8,” it read, “but Im ready 2 get back. Worried u will burn house down. How r u?”

I rolled my eyes. Burn the house down! She’d be impressed when she got back and saw how well kept the place was, now that we had 17 primates in it. The roommate was a great girl, one of my favorite people, really, but a little up tight. A little crazy. I wrote back: “Dont worry, the monkeys and i r fine.”

I put the phone down and grabbed my brush, thinking that I would have to buy some better grooming utensils once I got the business rolling – this one cheap-o plastic number wasn’t going to last long. I went to town on the tamarin, who gurgled a little and grinned at me. I pondered using a blow-dryer on him – golden lions are covered in fine strawberry-blonde fur everywhere but on their feet and faces. Even though he was tiny, he would take a while to dry, and if he fell asleep in the twisted position he was in right now, his fur might dry in a weird shape, which would be no good when the dumbass came to pick him up later.

My phone beeped again and I grabbed it to give the blow-drying idea some time to settle into my brain. Roommate again. “Monkeys? I hope ur kidding. C u tomorrow.” I glanced at the tamarin and typed back, “Sure. Where do u keep ur blowdryer?”

A few moments’ pause, then: “On my dresser. Please don’t electrocute urself.”

I laid the tamarin back down on the bed, where he snuggled deeper into the covers and sighed. Sneaking out of the bedroom, I put on my game face and headed for the kitchen quietly. To my surprise, the monkeys were now calm, mostly napping or grooming each other in the cupboards and corners. A few babbled upon my approach, and the female spider monkey stood up to greet me with a little wave. The Cheez-Its seemed to have been forgotten. I was going to have to buy some fruit tonight to avoid more riots.

Liz’s hair dryer was on her dresser, as was her comb and a few styling products. I hesitated for a moment before realizing that after tonight’s take I could buy her new and better products. There might be some tension over the issue, but she'd calm down when I got her nice stuff. I grabbed everything and headed back to the tamarin.

He really liked the styling cream, and we had a little fight over his repeated attempts to eat it from the bottle, but when the blow dryer turned on he lost all interest to abject terror. I kept it on low heat, though, and within a few minutes he was like butter in my hands again. What a sweet little monkey. I decided to make him my buddy and let him sleep on my pillow that night. We played with a few different styles but eventually decided on a sleek shiny look that made him as human as a foot-long fur-covered tail-wielding animal could. I thought it would go over well. The tamarin fell asleep on my pillow as I went to get the male spider monkey.

A Brand New Day

I woke up this morning like I do every other morning, annoyed at my alarm and wondering how on earth I was expected to get myself out of my nice warm bed so early when I was still so groggy. I turned off the alarm and started to close my eyes, but then I remembered last night.

President Obama. Repeat that a few times. President Obama. What a nice ring that phrase has to it.

Last night I heard that a lot. I watched the election results roll slowly in at a friend's apartment on 127th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue in Harlem. We spent most of our time making fun of the various pundits and Republicans on the screen, all nervous but optimistic. Then, around 11:00, the screen flashed an announcement: Barack Obama Elected the 44th President of the United States.

And the street outside erupted into noise. We ran to the window to look out and saw huge crowds of people pouring out of their buildings, yelling, running, screaming, crying, hugging, banging on pots and pans and drums and bells, skipping, jumping, laughing. Cars were going by with their horns blaring, with people hanging out of windows and sticking out of sun roofs. FIrecrackers were going off nearby. The noise was almost deafening.

After McCain's concession speech (which was marvelous, by the way; if he'd conducted his campaign as smoothly and kindly, or even been able to deliver speeches that well along, last night might have gone very differently), Connor and I took to the streets. We walked down to 125th, past the Apollo, where everyone was taking photographs of the Marquee: "Congratulations, President-Elect Barack Obama," and through the throngs of people celebrating in every way. There were few police around, and people were running shirtless toward the gathering at the jumbotron on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, hugging strangers, pouring drinks, lighting up who-knows-what cigarettes.

When we finally got to the square, the streets were literally mobbed. Police officers were letting the occasional vehicle through the crowds, but were helpless to keep people off the streets signs, fire hydrants, traffic signal posts, windowsills, and every other available surface. There were people with random musical instruments walking through the crowd, and Obama's face was everywhere, on posters and shirts and hats and stickers and buttons and flyers. And everywhere the word "Obama" was coming out of mouths.

We watched the victory speech in awe, unable to hear much of what was said over the yelling and banging of pots, pans, drums, and other percussives, cheering now and then, letting the intermittent rain hit our faces. Above us, on a sign post, people were beating against the Frederick Douglass Boulevard sign and climbing up the one-way arrows. Behind me, someone said, "Oh my GOD. My President is BLACK."

We were tired and knew it would take a while to get home, so after the speech we left the crowd, herded about by police officers at every step. We walked 20 blocks north to catch a bus at 145th street, and the whole way there people were dancing in the streets, hugging strangers, laughing and crying with joy. Even when we got on the bus at 12:45 am, the passengers were speaking of nothing but our new President.

I was so exhausted by the time I got home that I passed out almost immediately. The excitement of the night, after the long, tense, worried day had drained the last of my energy. I went to sleep knowing that I had just been a part of something gigantic and earth-shaking, and I doubt I will ever see or hear anything like it again. I have never seen so many people so happy. Ever.

I woke up this morning feeling more subdued, but still on my way to work, and even now, I haven't been able to stop smiling. The jubilation has calmed - we must now look ahead to some of the most difficult times we have ever seen in this country. But a new day has dawned, and in it, no matter how hard things get, I think there will be HOPE. I can't remember a time when I felt this country was so full of promise, and I think that many people my age will agree. We have been mired in a torpor of laziness and apathy for a long time. We have been uninspired by our leaders our whole lives and never even thought to look to them as Good Men in whom we could place trust or emotion, much less derive inspiration. But now we've been woken up. I hope. Time will tell.

Yes, we can. Yes, we can. Yes...

Ok, folks, I am terrified of this election. I've been trying to avoid the news media all day out of fear, but the bits and pieces that keep coming through on my radar seem to be promising. Obama seems to be doing fine. And yet, I am still a ball of nerves. I woke up this morning knowing that I'd been dreaming about Obama losing and America giving up and losing all hope for a better future.
And then I woke up the whole way and realized that I'd been dreaming. But the fear still won't go away. All my friends who know anything about economics keep telling me that the past few months have been nothing compared to what's going to happen over the next few years. And the thought of being under the supposed guidance of one more war-loving, hysterical, fear-mongering Republican who uses the world "nucular" during a time when we desperately need level-headed leadership sends me into a panic.
This makes me sad. Because in years past, I remember praising John McCain and saying that if he ever managed to get the Republican nomination, I would be happy to see him voted in as President. Back before he started towing the oil-slurping Good Old Boy party line. Back when he actually was, in some small way, a maverick. He once stood up to the GOP for their ridiculous right-winged-ness, making himself a regular guest on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart to ridicule President Bush. And when McCain gave his acceptance speech at the RNC, I remember having a vaguely warm and fuzzy feeling and saying aloud, "For the first time in my adult life, I'm not scared of the Republican winning." Seriously. The man has been around, he knows how the government (and foreign governments! shock!) work, and he seems like a generally ok guy. I wouldn't have been too sad if that McCain, the McCain who spoke out against an all-inclusive abortion ban, or the McCain who publicly criticized most Bush administration policies, had won. I'd have been disappointed, but not heartbroken. Because I kind of trusted that guy. But over the past six months, he's proven just how much of a yes-man he can be. He'll say yes to anything that will get him a vote. And then, within a week of winning my heart just a little bit, he decided to run for President with a Vice Presidential nominee who could almost be mistaken for Rush Limbaugh except that her breasts are a little smaller.
And now I'm absolutely terrified. If he were to win (to those of you who may be saying "Of course he won't win, how could America possibly be so stupid?" I reply: Bush has been in office for eight years. I was relieved in 2004 when I was certain he'd be ousted because, really, how could America possibly be that stupid? Well...) today, I would start making plans to move to Europe immediately. The man has been through a lot in his time, and I believe him to be the survivor he says he is. He's lived through multiple plane crashes (of his own doing, mostly), torture in a POW camp in Hanoi, and several bouts with melanoma. But even a cat only gets nine lives, and after a certain number of miraculous escapes one begins to wonder about deals with the devil. And all that aside, after all he's been through, the man is 72 and not in the best of shape. If he were to pass... we'd be... left in the clutches... of... Sarah Palin.
There are so many arguments against her that I won't even begin to list them. But let me put one plain and simple fact before you: her children's names are Bristol, Piper, Track, Willow, and Trig.
This is not a person we can trust with our nation. I do not want her anywhere near anything that sports a big red button. Ever.

And so, dear friends, I am absolutely terrified to read the news. Bush has been able to win two elections (one somewhat illegally, but still), despite my desperate desire to believe in the brains and hearts of the American people. After the last two elections I have completely lost any belief I had in them, and so I will quiver in fear until this day, and the Election Aftermath, which seems to have become an integral part of the process, are over.

But in parting, let me quote this bit of wisdom from Margaret and Helen, whose blog I've just been turned on to and whom I love as dearly as my own grandmother:

"when was the last time a politician brought a tear to your eye… moved you deep in your soul? Honestly when was the last time you really felt that Americans could do anything if we put our hearts and minds to it? I am an old lady. Most of my life politicians have moved me. Most of my life I have felt that Americans can do anything if we put our hearts and minds to it. It’s been 8 long years. I had almost forgotten what that felt like. Thank you Barack Obama. Thank you."

A New Yorker? Whining? No way.

In an attempt to stick to the ideals behind this blog (namely getting some of my bitching out in a productive and thoughtful way), and to lend it an air of authentic New York-ness, I shall commence complaining about people in the city.... now:

1) I was slightly disappointed in Halloween this year, as I am every year, by people's lack of excitement about the possibilities of the holiday, but all around I think it was a good Halloween. I'm almost always disappointed by reality, because versions of events in my head are generally much more interesting, layered, full of mystery, and overall more sparkly than they are in real life. Halloween bothers me sometimes because I see no reason why there shouldn't be all-out dancing in the strets, sparkles and confetti falling from the sky, and ghosts haunting every dark corner everywhere. But I can't really blame the holiday or people's lack of enthusiasm, because honestly, Halloween in New York is pretty close to an orgy of insanity. I just tend to miss out on the good stuff. This year it was my shoes that ruined the potential fabulousness, as I've mentioned before.

But this year I was disappointed by another phenomenon, which is where the bitching about New York life will really begin. On my way home on the 4 train at about 3:00 am (I think?), surrounded by half the cast of Alice In Wonderland (who were, sadly, not nearly as cool as I wished they were), the shoes on my feet cut off blood circulation to my head and I almost passed out. We had to get off the train so I could sit down, then catch the next one. When we got onto the next train, we were greeted by a boisterous crowd of about six or seven guys who immediately started making fun of Connor's costume. He was Roger Rabbit, and they started singing "Little Bunny Foo Foo" loudly and obnoxiously. Ugh. At 3:00 am with my feet killing me, this was the last thing I wanted to deal with. I glared at them for a while, then eventually stopped because they had moved on to somebody else to make fun of.

This "somebody else" was a guy who was in a costume or bizarre outfit of some sort that consisted of a vest and extremely short green shorts. I don't know what he was supposed to be or if it was even a costume, but kudos to him for not having frozen to death before he got on the train. Anyway, the group of annoying guys began loudly calling Green Shorts Guy a faggot, then proceeded to make their way slowly through the car toward him, asking onlookers if they liked faggots. Of course most people just ignored them, and I'm not even sure that Green Shorts Guy realized they were talking about him because he seemed oblivious, but eventually an onlooker said something to the trash-talkers. I didn't hear what he said, but within seconds, the entire group of them had surrounded the speaker-upper in a wall of thick leather and puffy down jackets. I really thought they were going to start beating him up.

I had been in a reverie most of this time and only tuned in when I noticed the wall of intimidation building up midway down the car. When I asked Connor what had happened, he told me they were ganging up on someone who had said something to them when they were being hateful toward homosexuals based solely on a man in short shorts who may or may not have been homosexual himself. I found myself passionately and furiously yelling:
"Are you serious? Are people still doing that? How stupid can you be?!" In retrospect, I shouldn't have yelled it that loudly, but luckily the intimidating guys were all too busy saying who-knows-what to the man who had stood up for freedom of sexuality to bother with my outburst. And, thankfully, the situation eventually diffused itself - I'm not sure how, but the guys started laughing and saying they were just having a good time. Then they sat down and started talking very loudly about how much heterosexual sex they have all the time, and so on and so forth.

Holy leaping Christ on a cross, what a load of horse shit. Now, I realize that in many ways my views on the world are not the same as other people's, and after all it's differences of opinion that keep the world as interesting a place as it is. But I simply cannot get over the optimistic idea that at the end of the year of our Lord 2008, in America, where equal legal rights have been granted to minorities and women, and where homosexuals may not have perfectly equal rights but are nonetheless a firmly established and culturally enriching part of our society, people should not think it's ok to be so... what's the word?... mind-boggling-ly moronic. I mean, how on earth does one manage to live in New York City and hold any type of prejudice against anybody? Particularly on Halloween, at 3 in the morning, in a subway car filled with people dressed as cartoon characters, ironic stereotypes, ridiculous celebrities, inanimate objects, and animals, how can one possibly take oneself and one's own insecurities so seriously that it would seem acceptable to physically intimidate someone for being an advocate of freedom of sexual preference or expression?

How is it possible that in this day and age, after so much work has been done by so many for so long to bring the idea of equality and acceptance and freedom to the masses, that people can be so absurdly closed-minded? How can people look upon each other at this moment in time and be bothered to discriminate, with the world economy breaking down around their ears, the natural world screeching full-tilt into disaster, and wars raging all around us? It scrambles my brains to think of it. Particularly this group of young men, who were mostly minorities and who were on a train to the Bronx, whose lives have probably all been affected in some way by the lingering traces of racism and prejudice, seemed to have no basis upon which to build a case for continuing the wholly idiotic attitude of intolerance.

I'm sure the argument could be made that they were just drunk guys hopped up on testosterone, a group of weak-minded individuals looking to pick on a more weak-bodied or weakly-represented individual to make themselves feel more like men. Sure. But that's no excuse and it's hardly an explanation. I have no way to wrap this up neatly, nor an argument to make, or even a suggestion to offer. I know the chorus: it's just human nature. The strong preying upon the weak. Fear of the unknown. Yadda yadda yadda. But understanding those arguments doesn't make them ok or make me ok with them. And neither does my anger about it. Education is the only route, I suppose, but who has the time to deal with raging dickheads?

2) Or, for that matter, who has the time to deal with vapid, hair-tossing, fake-ID wielding, drunk teenagers? NOBODY! And yet I, with all my temper issues and intense need for personal space, seem to be a magnet for them. Last night I went to see the Felice Brothers (http://www.myspace.com/thefelicebrothers) with a group of friends. The Felice Brothers are like hillbilly Catskill Mountain gospel music on hard-rock and they are f-ing AMAZING live, and you should go see them. They attract down-to-earth and beard-wearing crowds, at least to the degree than any New York City crowd can be down-to-earth or beardy. A very laid-back group ready and willing to have a fun time without stepping on anyone's toes. During the opening band, Deer Tick (who, by the way, I also recommend strongly), as I did my best to stand patiently behind some much-taller people who had no business being near the front, I suddenly found myself being pushed aside by the furious dancing of a girl on my left.

I swear I DID try to be polite for a minute or two. But about the third time I was hit in the face by her hair, I turned and glared at her. And there I was, face to face with an 18 year old girl wearing an outfit far too skimpy for a somewhat-outdoor concert in early November, drinking a beer and texting madly while the young man with her stared longingly at her profile. I almost vomited. But things were just getting started.

Keep in mind that the crowd at this show was very calm and pretty evenly spaced. There wasn't a whole lot of room to move around, but there was enough that being able to dance a bit or hold a conversation with your friends certainly didn't require you to bother the people around you at all. Not so for this girl. I have a feeling that when the bands were performing, she was actually very confused as to why people were looking at the stage and not at her. I'm not kidding.

She was dancing unecessarily energetically and provocatively, and literally flipping her hair every few seconds, hitting me with her elbows, legs, hands, and hair, texting almost constantly, and having one of the most inane conversations I have literally ever heard with the boy she was with. As she drained a beer I heard him ask, with stars in his eyes, if she had a fake ID. Her verbatim answer? "Yeah, a really good one. And I smoke pot, too!" Then she went back to flipping her hair at me and gyrating in a wholly inappropriate manner for mountain church music.

Like, OMG, that's tots groundbreaking! A fake ID and illegal drug use? Why, in the history of all "bad" things ever done, this girl was obviously setting new records. And ohmigod she was like so totally hot, too! Obviously like everyone wanted her.

Thank goodness she eventually moved away, since I was very, very, very close to punching her in the head or telling her male friend that if he didn't get her out of the reach of my hand, imminent doom was upon both of them. My friends made mild fun of me for being so angry about this girl's presence, which makes sense since I am very easily angered by lame people, particularly if they are in my personal bubble for no reason. This was around 10:45 pm. By midnight and a few songs into the Felice Brothers' set, I had mostly forgotten about Stupid Girl.

But then, suddenly, about 2/3 of the way through their set, she appeared once again, right beside me. And within a matter of seconds her hair was being flipped in my face again. And she was dancing again, hitting me with all manner of body appendages. I was livid. After the fast song at hand was over, she turned around to the guy behind her and threw her arms around his neck, declaring loudly (to the crowd, I think, and not to him) that she would never kiss him at this point. As a slow song started and I turned back to the music, I actually heard these words come out of her mouth - I am not making this up: "You love me, don't you? You're in love with me... You're really lucky, you know, that you're here with me."

. . .

Yeah, she said that. She said that. I have no words with which to follow that. I can't even really complain. It's just. Well. There it is. New York City, ladies and gents.

Economic cut and paste

Economic and political advice/analysis/predictions from my very good friend Jarrod. Don't get annoyed with him; he knows what he's talking about and is highly educated on economic theory, and is almost always right with his predictions at an intuitive level anyway. So just bear with him and believe him, and prepare:



Election 2008 is causing a much bigger societal rift than expected, but that generally happens preceding times of extreme volatility, deflationary economic conditions, and upcoming/ongoing periods of warfare.Time is not chronological in the sense we think of it as today, but rather it is cyclical. This is especially true in massive national, and especially global, economic cycles. We are entering a period known as deflation, and it has been seriously on since at least 2000. The second "Bull" market from early 2000's until now has failed to truly break any high ground set back then, and the iceberg tip has surfaced to be followed by much more severe economic pain and after a counter-trend rally, a much further decline in stocks.The choice of President has nothing to do with this. Money is too liquid, too massive, for any government to ever successfully control it. Don't believe me? Name one global market that is currently stable and rising at larger degree. Despite the choice of government, regulatory policies, or levels of taxation (all of which vary greatly from nation to nation) the entire global economy is contracting. Now tell me that the choice of our next President will solve this crisis. (Speaking of money, the U.S Dollar is essentially illegal anyway because it has been, since Roosevelt, a revolving door of taxes and printing new notes to kind of spiral us upwards into a monetary structure with no real base. The "gold standard" is also a myth, especially in modern times, and besides gold is just "money" because we say it is... the same way we say a dollar bill is a dollar.)Deflation hurts, and lasts a long time (like every economic cycle... I'm calling around 2018 for this one.) It starts with a primary recession (early 2000's) and then balloons up well past that into new mania, and then crashes into a secondary recession generally larger and more painful than the first, and global in nature (current.) Interest rates plummet, rise again, and once again plummet as credit freezes (sound familiar?) It is a period in which prices fall across the board. We know this because the "flight to safety" as the market crashed failed: gold is also down a significant amount (56%.) Gold will come down to around $600 an ounce and then we will look to seriously consider buying in at this level. Oil has also fallen as we've predicted, despite fears of its inevitable rise into the stratosphere (down 54%.) Our current target is $39 - $49 a barrel, and then it will stage a significant rally. The dollar will pull back hard and then push new highs, but this will only hurt our ability to export thus pushing us into a deeper contraction. Other commodities are also down - silver, corn, copper, soybeans, etc. The Baltic Dry Index, tracking shipping demand and such, is down 92% in five months. Unprecedented in the history of modern globalization.Stock markets during these times do whatever the Hell they want. Generally they crash hard, followed by the biggest rallies ever recorded (which only occur in the depths of Bear markets), and then crash again. Rallies in these conditions are only occurring because economic news is "not as bad as expected." A negative GDP is ALWAYS a bad thing, yet it wasn't "as negative" as analysts predicted, so the market surged this past week. However, net and net after a deflationary cycle the market loses money. Buy-and-hold is a myth. 401(k)'s are not wise decisions. Sell into rallies, and hold short ETFs for near-term swings. Cash is king. Treasury bills bought and held from 2001 until now would have made a combined 36%, whereas investing in the S&P 500 would have lost you just about 30%.Social mood undergoes radical change during these periods. Oftentimes deflation is accompanied by massive warfare and bloodshed - the only two modern examples of this are WWII and the Civil War. The Panic of 1819, etc. is also comparable, but too non-studied in this country for anyone to know what I'm talking about. Essentially heavy borrowing to finance the War of 1812 led to the inevitable collapse of the banking system- widespread foreclosures, bank failures, unemployment rates sky-rocketed, prices dropped, and agriculture and manufacturing plummeted. Immediately following 1816 and leading into 1819 (the panic officially ended in 1823), American bankers created banknotes and other such products to sell here and globally that inevitably led to the collapse and failure of those markets as well. This is sounding awfully familiar. People proposed many fixes- increasing tariffs, decreasing tariffs, direct debt relief, restricting bank credit, increasing infrastructure and public works, stricter regulations, etc. The governent initiated programs for immediate debtor relief and calls for financial reform, and it is generally considered that this only prolonged the pain, and the long-term result was the future Panics of 1837 and 1857. Incidentally, no matter which candidate you vote for this problem is already inherent in the system, and there is nothing they can do about it that will reverse this course. Again, whoever wins this election will not make a decisive difference. But you can go ahead and believe otherwise, and if the candidate you support loses you can blame whoever wins for four or eight years if it makes you feel better.http://www.mises.org/rothbard/panic1819.pdfAnd during all of what is occurring now people bicker about social issues that blind them to the greater picture: a financial and economic global disaster that will soon make any "moral" issue pale in comparison. All in all whoever wins this election will likely leave office after one term, and do so as the most hated President in modern U.S. history. Looking back over decades of economic and market data shows that the MARKETS precede politics, not the other way around. If you look at candidate popularity over the last few months the rallies gave McCain a more equal edge, and the crashes gave Obama significant leads. Now the market is "stabilizing" (it is not) in the public's eye and McCain is gaining a few points here and there. The candidates will not affect the market. The candidates will not make the United States more capitalistic or more socialist.FDR is a prime example. Took over where Hoover left off post-Depression era and using a "braintrust" of economic advisors instituted the New Deal, which a lot of Republicans and Americans alike feared was Socialism in Disguise. The New Deal did two critical things: it prevented the United States from turning into a socialist country by instituting REGULATORY AGENCIES rather than GOVERNMENT-RUN agencies, and it softened the blow of serious recessionary conditions. But in the long run it did not matter much and we still plunged into a major international conflict, during which all "normal" economics fails to matter.I digress. The single best predictor of an election outcome is the Dow Jones Industrial Average, and it is also the single best predictor of a President's popularity. Now remember that money is too vast, too liquid, and too emotional when tied to the market for any President to ever have a handle on it. Social mood en masse dictates the markets' actions, not a President. Whoever is elected will do so in the toughest economy our country has yet faced, and it will only get worse. He will leave office one of the most hated Presidents in our country's history, and that will only be inflated due to this "Culture War" that is being stirred up into a frenzy by both sides.My main point for saying all of this is exactly that. The Culture War is upon us, and is only being hastened by the likes of Limbaugh, O'Reilly, Olbermann, and the list goes on and on. There is money to be made spinning nothing but the purest shit, regurgitated in nice sound bites that rile up your base and anger the other side.We are staring into an economic abyss the scope of which we have never seen and we're bitching about who might be a Muslim, or who might be a terrorist, who's the biggest patriot?This country is being torn apart by two conflicting viewpoints that have been home-spun by pundits and media outlets on both sides. Buzz words are tossed like chum to frenzied sharks for mass consumption and to fuel the hatred and enhance the rift: Terrorist. Muslim. Nazi. Racist. Religious Nutjob. Too Old. Socialist. Anti-Gun. Pro-Gun. Homophobic. Anti-Semite. Anti-American.Ludicrous.I can't wait for Tuesday night just because I can't wait to stop hearing all the bullshit, but I know that this is not going to happen. Whoever wins, the other side will bitch and gripe about it for four more years. We're in for a long, long time of "I told you so's." And all of it is unwarranted, unfounded, and pure U.S.D.A. Grade A Bullshit. Each side is rallied to the point where they "FEAR" the other side winning. So much for Unity.The only fear we should have in this country is the fear that we will once again tear the very fabric of this Nation with a culture war fueled by severe economic deflation and absolute stupidity. The Civil War pit brothers against brothers in physical bloodshed. The Culture War is pitting sons against fathers, mothers against daughters, neighbors against neighbors, in a figurative war that is causing emotional and societal rips and only increasing the scope of the polarization. I have already begun to see the seeds of it: people in traffic cussing out those with conflicting political endorsement stickers, families arguing over issues that should not be as important as a familial bond, and the use of hate speech on both sides being tossed about in serious anger. My only hope is to make enough within the next couple years so that a place like New Zealand, Switzerland, or Thailand will soon be calling my name and I can call it Home.The progression of social mood in a delfationary economic cycle is as follows: Concern. Fear. Panic. Despair.And we have not even begun to experience the Panic yet.

More Halloween musings, and a religious pamphlet I approve of!

Last night was Halloween. In case my rambling passage from yesterday passed you by. I'm not sure what exactly I was trying to say - obviously. But I was tired and annoyed at the day in general by the time I wrote it and wasn't thinking clearly enough to write anything worth reading. Still, I think there's a little nugget of truth in there somewhere if you dig for it.

Anyway, here I am, shamefully, at work the day after Halloween. I absolutely love Halloween and I wanted to be out till dawn last night, rocking out my fabulous Jessica Rabbit costume (still haven't come across a decent Maleficent costume I could afford... sigh...), then come in here today hung over enough to show what a blowout night I had. But alas, I was thwarted in my attempts at being ultra-NYC-party-fab-cool. By my shoes. As always. I don't know why I always seem to think I can get away with wearing ridiculous cheap shoes - they always kill me.
We stood out at the parade for an hour and a half, waiting for the Project Bueller ((http://projectbueller.tumblr.com/) float to go by, and by the time it passed and we had run after it, singing "Twist and Shout" and reveling in the fun, my feet were so sore that I had to hold on to Connor's arm to walk. So we ended up, rather than floating from bar to bar on the wings of our awesome costumed-ness, sitting barefoot on our friend's couch in Stuyvesant Town. Not that the party was lame or anything - it was actually a pretty great soiree- but I was definitely shut down by my shoes. Didn't want to go anywhere.

Why do I, and other women, keep doing this? Sure, my legs looked good in the 6-inch heels, and sure, they complimented my costume, but for God's sake, why did I think I would be ok to walk around in them all night without my body rebelling against the completely unnatural position into which they forced my body, and the loss of blood circulation they inflicted upon my toes? Why did I think a pair of $10 shoes from Danice in the Bronx would carry me around effectively all night? For that matter, why do we think the ridiculous shoes we buy, regardless of price, are ever a good idea? They are sometiems just as bad to our bodies and comfort level as foot binding was to Chinese women. They have become an implement of female torture in Western society, put into a positive light by the fact that they turn men on, and make women look oh so good. Popularized for women by Catherine de' Medici in the 1530's to increase stature and make one look fashionable, high heels have become a symbol of sex appeal in modern culture. Not only do they reek of sex, but women seem to have turned the logic of trying to attract men around, making the ability to walk confidently in stilletos and other crazy heels a matter of self-confidence and strength. Every day in midtown I see women walking around in five-inche stilleto boots and pant-suits; high-powered business women totter around in less-than-pencil-thin pumps, feeling fabulous because they think/know they look good and they can totally 'handle it.' And by 'it,' of course, I mean discomfort, difficulty balancing, and being forced to walk more slowly than normal in order to pay attention to where they place their feet. WHY?

The funny thing is - I'm ranting on and on about this, and I don't have an answer. Nor am I going to stop wearing heels. To be honest, I don't wear them nearly as often as many women, especially here in NYC, but I do have several pairs of 3-5 inch heels ranging from platform chunky versions to stilleto boots that I have to veer around subway grates and holes in the sidewalk in. And I will continue to wear them because... well... they make me feel awesome and sexy.
What can I do?


Also:
On my way into the subway this morning I was handed a religious pamphlet. Knowing I'd have a while to wait on the platform, I took one, thinking it would be a good laugh. But it was, surprisingly, well-written. And, bizarre-o faith language and fallacy-laden logic aside, it actually made some pretty good sense. It was about how salvation isn't a sure thing, and how even those who have been born again and who are very "good" practicing Christians must keep their eyes open and work at it to be sure they've been assured salvation. I don't really pretend to understand all the finer points of the reasoning in there, or the Scripture, or what have you, but I found no bad grammar, no misused punctuation, no nonsense sentences, no badly used words... In short, it was well written and appeared to have been edited by someone who knew what he or she was doing. There were a few standout sudden changes in point of view, but beyond that it was impeccably put to paper. I was cheered.

I am by no means a Christian, but I have no ill will toward the religion. It works well for some people, and like most other religions I think it's just one way of looking and experiencing the Great Mystery we all seek. And it's not a bad way to go. If you want, you can be an emotional Christian who falls down on your knees in passion and praises your God, or you can be an intellectual, ephemeral, philosophical Christian who uses very important and well-laid out theological texts for study and contemplation, or you can choose from any number of different paths to "salvation" between those two extremes. It's a wide open way of looking at life and what it means, and I think that's great. But I have read some pamphlets in my time that have turned the idea of being a Christian into this ultra-low-brow, horrendously conceived, and badly executed miraculous cure-all for all the ills of life. I have read misspelled words, grammar that a five year old should be able to correct, and arguments that simply made no sense, and I have grieved for Christians who seem to know what they're talking about relying on the skills of some hack who can hardly communicate what he wants for dinner, let alone the finer points of faith and religious dogma. It's just sad.

So Kudo's to Robert Lehigh, editor of "Bible Helps" pamphlets from Hanover, PA. I commend you.

Halloween

Somebody asked me today if Halloween is a real holiday since it's not a Federally observed day off work. I don't quite know the answer to that, and I am in the kind of mood that does not allow for research, but my response was something along the lines of: "Well it damn well should be. There are f***ing spirits walking the earth today! We should be allowed 24 hours of pure revelry!" My friend agreed with me in that same amused tone that people tend to use when I rhapsodize about ghost-hunting, haunted houses, mythology and Maleficent. They see my point of view on these things as mildly morbid and sort of cute, and they nod and smile while I go on about them.
But this is serious stuff, people. Halloween is one day during the crazy rushing around of the rest of the year when we are asked to think about the dead, and the spirits that accompany them and ourselves every day, as entities rather than ideas. We do not celebrate memories of those lost, we do not talk about some sort of historical or religious thing that happened long ago in a land far away, and we don't even have to get together with our families or have barbeques.
Halloween asks us to open ourselves up, using masks and costumes and revelry, to the possibility that there are other things walking amongst us, disguised as people just as we are disguised as whatever we choose. Halloween is a celebration of the fact that that which is usually unseen is nonetheless a part of our lives every day, moving us in ways we don't often recognize.
I don't know if on this day there is any more spirit activity in the world than on other days - hell, I don't even know what I mean, exactly, by "spirit activity." But it's an opportunity to think about what terms like "spirit activity" mean, and how much of it we believe in. We can admit to the possibility of things we ignore or deny every day, including the demented and twisted and morbid parts of ourselves that we turn off to appear "normal" most of the time.
I think that's why the idea of costumes appeals to me so much. I love to don a costume and go to a fabulous party, where real identities can be forgotten and one can let one's sense of self become liquid, fluid, nonexistent. We can let ourselvs forget the rigid walls we spent all day inside of, the restrictions we impose upon ourselves in our everyday life. Most people can't handle letting themselves go this way every day, even if they don't realize it. And most of us can't handle the ideas that Halloween allows us to explore about the supernatural in and outside of ourselves. But on Halloween we are allowed to do that, briefly. Why not take the opportunity, open ourselves up? Eat some candy? Admit to the possibility that maybe what we see isn't all there is?
So this year, for the sake of your sanity, let yourself go. Put on a costume and go out, and don't just wear it - become it. Let yourself be lost in the wildness, put on another identity, and for goodness' sake, go throw eggs at something! Go sit in a cemetary and dare yourself to take some pictures. Dance in the street. Get lost in a strange neighborhood. And keep your eyes open.