There are plenty of reasons to hate dating. It is time-consuming, expensive, and most of the time proves to be fruitless. My biggest fear about dating is the first disappointment—whether it's disappointment in my date or theirs in me—typically it's the latter.
Like most of us, I've had my share of horrendous dates. Few are so scarring that you remember them years after the fact. My worst one started out so good and went downhill so fast that it felt like a bad dream. It was like I was watching some sitcom and the poor schmuck dating is all giddy with hope and then the date says or does something so heinous that it comes crashing to a halt.
I met Noah at a coffee shop while I was waiting for an interview to start. I arrived too early and didn't want to be rude so I decided to kill time with a tea. I walked into a Starbucks and was waiting in a long line when Noah walked in behind me. It began with an off-hand comment about how the lines here are always long. It ended with him buying my tea and sitting at a table with me. He was clearly interested in more and I was completely in shock. I'm not the kind of beauty that often gets hit on in public and certainly not in daylight. Before I had to go to my interview he asked me for my phone number. I wrote it down on a napkin for him, with "Joshua" above it. I don't know why I wrote "Joshua" instead of "Josh". I blame never being asked for my phone number before for not knowing how to handle the situation.
The very next day, Noah called. I almost thought it was a prank. A handsome, gentleman caller was calling ME the DAY AFTER meeting. No 3-day rule or game playing or googling me and finding out that I write a stupid blog and am practically a mental patient. He even wanted to see me again after our phone conversation (I give TERRIBLE phone and am incredibly awkward) which went like this:
Noah: Hi, it's Noah from Starbucks yesterday. How did your interview go?
Me: Is this a prank call? I swear to God if you're one of my asshole friends pretending to be the coffee shop guy I'll hunt you down, slit your throat, and shit down your neck.
Noah: Excuse me?
Me: It's really the coffee shop guy?
Noah: Yes. It's Noah. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner sometime and what your availability—
Me: YES!
Noah: Okay... that's good... and when are you free?
Me: ANYTIME! I mean... I don't have that job yet so my schedule is pretty open. I mean except for Tuesday night because I have to watch the West Wing and Gilmore Girls... but I mean I could always tape it if it was important. I still have a vcr. Tivo is kind of expensive and I hate Comcast so I try to limit their services. Aren't they the worst? I mean my internet always stops working and when you call them they're all like 'We can come next Friday between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.' and I'm all like 'You're damn lucky I don't have a job or I'd be so pissed off right now.'
Noah: Yeah... Comcast is the worst... so what kind of food do you like?
Me: LOBSTER! I'm just kidding. Isn't that what the person getting the free meal is supposed to ask for? I was only kidding. Not that I don't like lobster. It's good. Uh... I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I don't get many phone calls from strangers. Not strangers! I mean like strange guys... guys that ask me out.
Noah: Do you like French cuisine?
Me: I'm not sure. I've never had it. When I was younger there was this bully who used to give me a 'french crépe' which consisted of him wrapping his fist in a plastic bag and trying to get me to eat it at recess. But I'm guessing that doesn't count?
Noah: Do you like French wines?
Me: I'm not sure if I've ever had one. Most of the wine I've drank have been out of a jug that says 'Paisano' or 'Riunite'.
Noah: Ok. Why don't I introduce you to French then? I think you'll like it if you enjoyed that tea yesterday.
Me: You remembered what I was drinking? You're really nice.
Noah: You must know how attractive you are.
Me: I... You're... Thank you.
Noah: So how does tomorrow night sound for dinner? I'll call you beforehand with the address and time once I make a reservation.
Me: That sounds great. Thanks Noah. I'm really glad you called.
Noah: Me too. I'll see you tomorrow cutie.
I was elated the rest of the night and the following day. I called everyone I ever knew and told them all about my upcoming date and how some handsome stranger thought I was a "cutie." Before I'd even had my first date with Noah, my friends and family were sick of him.
Panic set in about 2 hours before the allotted date time. I didn't know what to wear. He'd seen me in my only interview outfit the other day. Anything else I put on just made me look homeless and pale. I settled on my best cardigan with funky houndstooth pants. On my train ride over to the french bistro, I heard another passenger whisper "70's porn star" to her friend while looking at me.
When I arrived Noah was already in the lobby, looking incredibly dapper in a suit jacket with a new haircut and trimmed beard. I gave him a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he took my arm and ushered me to our table. He helped me take off my jacket and even pulled out my chair for me. I thought I might faint. Guys did that in the movies for glamorous women, guys didn't do nice stuff like that for other guys—let alone a disheveled looking ragamuffin.
Noah ordered a bottle of wine for us, helped me translate the fancy menu, and then ordered for us. The waitress returned with a beautiful bottle of wine, poured us both a glass, and we toasted to our chance encounter. We talked for a few minutes and he even seemed to enjoy my stupid sense of humor. In the beautiful restaurant with shimmering candles and a single chandelier providing the only lighting, the scene took on a magical quality. I was completely smitten and swooning when he looked up from his glass and asked:
"So... where do you go to Temple?"
Confused, but not thinking anything of it, I replied "I don't go to any temples."
"Oh." He said, "So you're a bad Jew?"
"No." I replied. "I'm a no Jew."
"You're not Jewish at all?" He asked, incredulous.
"No... Why would you think that?" I asked.
He hesitated, unsure of his words. I knew something awful and insidious was coming but I wasn't prepared for exactly what it was.
"Well... your name for one thing... it's a very Jewish name."
"It's a biblical name." I said non-chalantly. "Not specifically Jewish. My parents aren't religious at all. They just liked the name."
He continued. "And... well... to be honest... with a nose like that, I just assumed..."
"A nose like what?" I said much more shrilly than I'd hoped.
"It's just... it's a very Jewish nose..." He said sheepishly. "Anyways, Judaism plays an important part in my life. I only date Jewish boys... I'm sorry if I've misled you."
"Oh." I said, still in shock. "Well I'm sorry if I've misled YOU with my giant, hideous nose!"
"It's my fault." He said blushing slightly. "I shouldn't have assumed... I can't believe I'm the first person to tell you this though..."
"Well you ARE the first person to tell me this." I huffed.
"Maybe we should call it a night. Can I get you a cab?" He asked.
"No thanks. my nose might not fit in the backseat."
The long train ride home I spent touching my face, feeling around my nose, closing my eyes and pretending to be blind, learning my own face strictly through its contour. It didn't seem particularly big to me, but the more I touched it, the more gargantuan and grotesque it felt on my face. Other passengers started to look at the ill-dressed boy fondling his own face as silent tears trickled down.
When I got home, my roommate asked me what happened and why I was home before eight o'clock. I ignored her and went straight to the bathroom mirror. I stared at my hideous, ruinous, date-crushing, false-heritage nose. I pictured a plastic surgeon cutting into it to remove some cartilage.
"I'm sorry Joshua, I don't have a knife big enough for this job. And we may have to remove the excess cartilage in installments. I've never seen anything like this."
My earlier excitement about my date had completely betrayed me. Before bed I was flooded with phone calls, all wondering how my perfect date had gone and when was the wedding? Several times I had to recount the story of my mammoth nose and how appallingly bad the evening had gone.
To this day, I don't pass a mirror without looking at my nose in profile—a twisted Pinocchio look-alike. I also don't flirt with any strange men without first introducing myself by saying "Hello. My name is Josh. I'm agnostic. Nice to meet you."
Tales of a tactless twit
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Saturday, November 13, 2010
The Trouble With Public Transit
Regardless of your political affiliation, stance on global warming, or whether you're a social butterfly or hermit, I think there is something we can all agree on—public transportation is a good idea—but we never want to have to use it. In my eyes, the reason is very simple: public transportation is open to the public.
Years of working retail and food service have taught me to distrust and fear people. I think most teenagers and 20-somethings resort to working in these professions at some point before finding their niche, and the result is always the same: you discover that people suck. As a person, I am allowed to make this claim. I suck too. However, The difference between peoples who suck can be vast. Those who learn a modicum of social grace and how to behave in public at least don't give the outward appearance of sucking. It is the other narcissistic few, oblivious to the suffering of those around them, who really wreck havoc on public transit and make it near unbearable. Not to mention the crazies and the homeless who simply don't care if they make you uncomfortable or not. We encounter these people all the time, but being trapped on a train or a bus with them is undoubtedly the worst way to start your morning commute.
The man with mangled hands is one of the most memorable characters I've encountered on public transit. Every morning on the R-train from Astoria into Manhattan, I would see this poor man. In his 50's, a former high school basketball coach, toothless, homeless, and out-of-work, the man with mangled hands would walk up and down the subway cars announcing his trouble and asking for spare change. I heard his life story every morning, but the one thing I never heard about was what happened to his hands. Now that is a tale I'd be willing to pay for.
Because of his physical handicap, he couldn't work a normal job so he turned to panhandling. But because of his condition, panhandling was possibly the worst career move he could have made. He would approach strangers on the train, saying "If you can't spare some change, spare a smile." Then hold out his grotesque, 3 fingered lobster claw of a hand for people to put change into. It was so swollen, lumpy, and deformed that any coins or bills you placed into it would roll off onto the floor. Then you would feel even worse for making this poor man work for his money—trying to trap a quarter between what's left of a thumb and a pinky finger off the moving train's floor. The one time I did try to give him change, I held out my hand with coins in my palm. He tried plucking them off one by one and it seemed to take forever. The whole time I was staring at his puffy, swollen, twisted hands. I know it's wrong, but I couldn't look away. Then I started to see pus oozing out from behind a cracked fingernail. I threw up in my mouth instantly. I tried to cover my mouth with my free hand and make it seem like I was yawning, but he could tell my chipmunk cheeks were full of vomit. I then had to ride the rest of the way to work with a mouthful of vomit—I refused to swallow it or get off the train—silent tears rolling down my cheeks the whole way.
The Woman on Crack. Taking different forms, but always behaving the same, the Woman on Crack is both amusing and terrifying. I've seen this woman on the train in broad daylight and at midnight. She knows not what time it is, nor does she care. She is typically younger-middle-aged but looks older for her facial scarring, missing teeth, and clothing meant for teenagers. Most train passengers will be reading a book, newspaper, or bobbing their heads along with an ipod. At first glance the Woman on Crack might appear normal, if slightly "enthusiastic" about the music she's listening to. Then, upon further inspection, you'll notice there are no earbuds or headphones, just the music from within her crazed little head. What was previously an over-exuberant head-bobbing and lip-syncing quickly becomes a full-on rave. Erupting into a chorus, the Woman on Crack will belt out the imaginary tune bouncing around in her empty head and dance explosively to the phantom music. You'll hear lyrics like:
"There's a PAHHHHTY going on over heahhhhhhhh...you bettah bring some fuckin' caaaaaaake. I ain't kiddin' Chris, bring some goddamn caaaaaaake...don't be bringin' that stupid girlfriend of yours neitheeeeeer...she fuuuuucked up in the heaaaaad...Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtleeeeeees...those fucks are greeeeen!"
The last Woman on Crack I saw then proceeded to grab onto a subway pole and spin around it, dancing and laughing to her own private joke. Once that got old, she started preaching to the passengers around her:
"I ain't got no job!"
*CLAP*
"I ain't got no money!"
*CLAP*
"Nobody cares about me!"
*CLAP*
Lady, all I care about is getting off this train without you spazzing out and sticking me with a shiv.
The Muttering Man. A common sight on public transit, the muttering man is clearly crazy, hasn't bathed in weeks, and is incredibly suspicious of you. To him, you are the crazy one. The last Muttering Man I saw was counting empty bottles of Tab and Dr. Pepper and arranging them just-so on the train platform. I was completely fascinated by this OCD behavior. He was spinning and twirling each 2-liter bottle around so that it matched up perfectly with the bottle behind it, label-to-label. It was like watching a lava lamp. I was mesmerized and staring at him unabashedly. That is, I stared at him until he snapped his head around, locked predatory eyes on me like some horror movie creature, and lept off the bench at me in a dead run, shrieking "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!"
"Nothing!" I cried, and ran out of the train station, walking to work that day.
The Bag Lady. While typically docile and nothing to be feared, the common Bag Lady keeps to herself and her bags. She carries at least five sackfuls of miscellaneous items—clothing, soda cans, shoes, bird food—sensible things. However, the last Bag Lady I encountered was anything but typical of her species. Past midnight on the subway train, I was riding home from a late night of restaurant work. I was the only person on my car and it was luxurious. Enter: Bag Lady.
Scuttling onto the train like a beetle, I could see her gray hair leaking out of her wrapped shawl, but it covered most of her face. Smelling the crazy from a mile away, I buried my face in my book and avoided eye-contact. It didn't help. She scurried over and took the seat right next to me—her puffy coat touching my arm. She then spread out her dozen paper bags on the floor in front of her. I could see labels printed on them like Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale's, Sak's Fifth Avenue—places Bag Ladies never go but always end up with their memorabilia.
I should have moved away—taken one of the hundreds of other empty seats—but I was scared and stupid. I sat there hiding behind my book as she leaned down and started rummaging through her various department store bags. They were clanking and banging and ruffling—God only knows what gets stuffed into a Bag Lady's bag.
Unable to find what it is she's looking for, Bag Lady starts getting frantic. Knocking her bags over onto the floor, one-by-one, she rummages through the spilled contents. I peer over my book to see her rabidly searching for something. I see piles of random crap spilling out of toppled bags—Pez dispensers, Yo-yo's, kite string, pieces of Lego, fishing lures, soda cans, glass bottles, makeup kits, a sun-catcher, loose pages torn from books, kitty litter, bits of Barbie doll, a box of Farina, silverware, a dog collar, CDs, a broken tape recorder, a mangled cassette tape, 2 cans of Silly String, Rotten apples, an empty jar of peanut butter, and several candles. Suddenly she stops her frenzied search. She's found what she's been looking for. She cradles it in her hands and peers around suspiciously, making sure nobody is looking at her precious.
I'm certain something dreadful is about to happen. There's more crazy in the air than oxygen. My hands get clammy. I drop my book on the floor.
She whips around in her seat towards me,
I see something black and shiny in her hand.
I scream—certain it's a knife and that my life is going to end on the subway at the hands of a Bag Lady—I recoil in terror.
Something flashes. I'm temporarily blind.
The crazy bitch took my picture. I imagine it looks something like this:
She left behind all of her bags as a memento. Anyone need some kitty litter and a kite string?
Years of working retail and food service have taught me to distrust and fear people. I think most teenagers and 20-somethings resort to working in these professions at some point before finding their niche, and the result is always the same: you discover that people suck. As a person, I am allowed to make this claim. I suck too. However, The difference between peoples who suck can be vast. Those who learn a modicum of social grace and how to behave in public at least don't give the outward appearance of sucking. It is the other narcissistic few, oblivious to the suffering of those around them, who really wreck havoc on public transit and make it near unbearable. Not to mention the crazies and the homeless who simply don't care if they make you uncomfortable or not. We encounter these people all the time, but being trapped on a train or a bus with them is undoubtedly the worst way to start your morning commute.
The man with mangled hands is one of the most memorable characters I've encountered on public transit. Every morning on the R-train from Astoria into Manhattan, I would see this poor man. In his 50's, a former high school basketball coach, toothless, homeless, and out-of-work, the man with mangled hands would walk up and down the subway cars announcing his trouble and asking for spare change. I heard his life story every morning, but the one thing I never heard about was what happened to his hands. Now that is a tale I'd be willing to pay for.
Because of his physical handicap, he couldn't work a normal job so he turned to panhandling. But because of his condition, panhandling was possibly the worst career move he could have made. He would approach strangers on the train, saying "If you can't spare some change, spare a smile." Then hold out his grotesque, 3 fingered lobster claw of a hand for people to put change into. It was so swollen, lumpy, and deformed that any coins or bills you placed into it would roll off onto the floor. Then you would feel even worse for making this poor man work for his money—trying to trap a quarter between what's left of a thumb and a pinky finger off the moving train's floor. The one time I did try to give him change, I held out my hand with coins in my palm. He tried plucking them off one by one and it seemed to take forever. The whole time I was staring at his puffy, swollen, twisted hands. I know it's wrong, but I couldn't look away. Then I started to see pus oozing out from behind a cracked fingernail. I threw up in my mouth instantly. I tried to cover my mouth with my free hand and make it seem like I was yawning, but he could tell my chipmunk cheeks were full of vomit. I then had to ride the rest of the way to work with a mouthful of vomit—I refused to swallow it or get off the train—silent tears rolling down my cheeks the whole way.The Woman on Crack. Taking different forms, but always behaving the same, the Woman on Crack is both amusing and terrifying. I've seen this woman on the train in broad daylight and at midnight. She knows not what time it is, nor does she care. She is typically younger-middle-aged but looks older for her facial scarring, missing teeth, and clothing meant for teenagers. Most train passengers will be reading a book, newspaper, or bobbing their heads along with an ipod. At first glance the Woman on Crack might appear normal, if slightly "enthusiastic" about the music she's listening to. Then, upon further inspection, you'll notice there are no earbuds or headphones, just the music from within her crazed little head. What was previously an over-exuberant head-bobbing and lip-syncing quickly becomes a full-on rave. Erupting into a chorus, the Woman on Crack will belt out the imaginary tune bouncing around in her empty head and dance explosively to the phantom music. You'll hear lyrics like:
"There's a PAHHHHTY going on over heahhhhhhhh...you bettah bring some fuckin' caaaaaaake. I ain't kiddin' Chris, bring some goddamn caaaaaaake...don't be bringin' that stupid girlfriend of yours neitheeeeeer...she fuuuuucked up in the heaaaaad...Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtleeeeeees...those fucks are greeeeen!"
The last Woman on Crack I saw then proceeded to grab onto a subway pole and spin around it, dancing and laughing to her own private joke. Once that got old, she started preaching to the passengers around her:
"I ain't got no job!"
*CLAP*
"I ain't got no money!"
*CLAP*
"Nobody cares about me!"
*CLAP*
Lady, all I care about is getting off this train without you spazzing out and sticking me with a shiv.
The Muttering Man. A common sight on public transit, the muttering man is clearly crazy, hasn't bathed in weeks, and is incredibly suspicious of you. To him, you are the crazy one. The last Muttering Man I saw was counting empty bottles of Tab and Dr. Pepper and arranging them just-so on the train platform. I was completely fascinated by this OCD behavior. He was spinning and twirling each 2-liter bottle around so that it matched up perfectly with the bottle behind it, label-to-label. It was like watching a lava lamp. I was mesmerized and staring at him unabashedly. That is, I stared at him until he snapped his head around, locked predatory eyes on me like some horror movie creature, and lept off the bench at me in a dead run, shrieking "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!"
"Nothing!" I cried, and ran out of the train station, walking to work that day.
The Bag Lady. While typically docile and nothing to be feared, the common Bag Lady keeps to herself and her bags. She carries at least five sackfuls of miscellaneous items—clothing, soda cans, shoes, bird food—sensible things. However, the last Bag Lady I encountered was anything but typical of her species. Past midnight on the subway train, I was riding home from a late night of restaurant work. I was the only person on my car and it was luxurious. Enter: Bag Lady.
Scuttling onto the train like a beetle, I could see her gray hair leaking out of her wrapped shawl, but it covered most of her face. Smelling the crazy from a mile away, I buried my face in my book and avoided eye-contact. It didn't help. She scurried over and took the seat right next to me—her puffy coat touching my arm. She then spread out her dozen paper bags on the floor in front of her. I could see labels printed on them like Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale's, Sak's Fifth Avenue—places Bag Ladies never go but always end up with their memorabilia.
I should have moved away—taken one of the hundreds of other empty seats—but I was scared and stupid. I sat there hiding behind my book as she leaned down and started rummaging through her various department store bags. They were clanking and banging and ruffling—God only knows what gets stuffed into a Bag Lady's bag.
Unable to find what it is she's looking for, Bag Lady starts getting frantic. Knocking her bags over onto the floor, one-by-one, she rummages through the spilled contents. I peer over my book to see her rabidly searching for something. I see piles of random crap spilling out of toppled bags—Pez dispensers, Yo-yo's, kite string, pieces of Lego, fishing lures, soda cans, glass bottles, makeup kits, a sun-catcher, loose pages torn from books, kitty litter, bits of Barbie doll, a box of Farina, silverware, a dog collar, CDs, a broken tape recorder, a mangled cassette tape, 2 cans of Silly String, Rotten apples, an empty jar of peanut butter, and several candles. Suddenly she stops her frenzied search. She's found what she's been looking for. She cradles it in her hands and peers around suspiciously, making sure nobody is looking at her precious.
I'm certain something dreadful is about to happen. There's more crazy in the air than oxygen. My hands get clammy. I drop my book on the floor.
She whips around in her seat towards me,
I see something black and shiny in her hand.
I scream—certain it's a knife and that my life is going to end on the subway at the hands of a Bag Lady—I recoil in terror.
Something flashes. I'm temporarily blind.
The subway car stops, I hear the ding as the doors open, and I hear the Bag Lady jump out of her seat and scurry out the doors. As she's leaving I hear the distinctive whirring sound of her advancing the film on a disposable camera.
She left behind all of her bags as a memento. Anyone need some kitty litter and a kite string?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
New York City Apartment
We all know that New York City is the most populated city in America, but let me clarify exactly what that means.
In the year 2010, New York City is currently estimated to house 8.3 million people. The entire population of the United States is currently estimated at 307 million. That means roughly 2.7% of the United States' population is in New York City alone. Did you know that Manhattan in its entirety is 23 square miles? And that it holds 1.6+ million people? That's 66,490 people per square mile. The population density of the entire United States is approximately 76 people per square mile.
So what do all these numbers translate to in real life? Basically it means that New York City is an overcrowded, loud, filthy cesspool where dreams go to die. Sure, some of you starving artists might make a name for yourselves in the Big Apple, but most of you will be on the next Fung Wah bus home. Even if only 1% of the population in NYC is aspiring to realize the same dream as you, that means you have 83,000 competitors. Are you really a better actor, writer, singer, dancer, artist, or stock broker than 83,000 neighbors? I thought not. I tell you these things not to crush your spirit, I simply want to save you from a non-refundable security deposit, first, and last month's rent, and probably a realtor/finder's fee—a combined price tag averaging $4,950 for a one-bedroom in the city limits.
If I haven't successfully scared you off this notion of moving to New York City to follow your dreams, let me tell you one of my many personal tales of woe when moving there.
Doe-eyed and innocent, my friend Leanne and I hopped into my car the weekend before we were supposed to move to NYC. Our mission was to drive into Manhattan, secure a cheap apartment, and move in the following week. A week's time might not seem like enough to get an apartment and move, but we were assured by many people, realtors included, to wait until the last minute to find a place. The turnover rate for rentals in the city is so high that nobody lists apartments more than a month ahead of time—and if they do, there is something horribly wrong with it.
We scraped together our pennies, printed out some craigslist ads, and went in search of the perfect 2-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Our first stop: the East Village. We arrived an hour late because of traffic and taking the wrong bridge that instead led us directly into a Chinatown fish market. The smell was unbearable and it was impossible to get around when all the roads were either blocked off by police or by giant dragon floats. We instead parked the car as soon as we could and walked to our first appointment.
We knocked on the door of the seemingly nice building but got no response. We rang the bell. Nothing. We knocked a little louder. Nothing. We called the contact number listed. Nothing. Frustrated, we turned to walk away when the door banged open. A middle-aged woman in an over-sized t-shirt with no bra was standing there squinting at us.
"Yeahhh?" She asked with a New Jersey accent.
"Hi, we're here to see the apartment...sorry we're late. Are you the person we spoke to over email?"
"Naw. I'm here with my boyfriend from Jersey. We just stayed the night...partied a little too hard and just woke up. My cousin couldn't be here. You wanna come in and see the place?"
"Sure."
We went inside and had to shuffle sideways down the extremely narrow (and obviously illegal) hallway to the first bedroom. Asleep in a sleeping bag surrounded by cigarette butts and empty cans of Miller Light was the boyfriend. The room couldn't have been bigger than 10' x 10' and being on the first floor with a window right onto 1st avenue, it was extremely loud. We were then ushered into the "second bedroom" which actually had us giggling. We had to take turns going in and out of the room because it wouldn't fit more than 2 people at a time. It housed no bed, only a small secretary desk against one wall, and that's all it would allow. With one doorway into the other bedroom and another doorway into the kitchen, it was more like a nexus than a room—it had no windows, no closet, and no floor—just subflooring.
Continuing into the kitchen we encountered an ungodly smell accompanied with a sink full of month-old dishes and grime. There was a fully-formed spiderweb complete with eggsacs on one of the faux-wood cabinets, and in place of a pull-out drawer underneath the countertop was a layer of duct tape.
Jersey ushered us into our final stop in the morning's tour—the bathroom. Leanne went in first and immediately about-faced and exited, covering her mouth. I peered in to see a giant dump in the toilet peeking it's head over the bowl and slowly oozing down onto the broken-tile floor. We exited the apartment immediately.
Sitting in a park right outside the building after having seen the horrors within, we collected ourselves and began to scour over the city's newspaper for apartment listings—the Village Voice. Finding nothing else in Manhattan within even $500 of our price range, we decided it might be best to try extending our search into the burroughs. We'd both heard good things about Queens so we called a few places in an up and coming neighborhood called Astoria. All but one were already rented so we agreed to go see it.
As I was hanging up the phone with Lucas—our future landlord, a fight was breaking out between two homeless men on a bench across from us. It went a little something like this:
"Hey fuck-face, where's my fucking Metrocards?" (Metrocards are what you use to access NYC's subway system.)
"I dunno. I ain't seen 'em"
"Don't fuckin' lie to me Roger, I know you been looking at 'em."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Go home." (To the shelter, I assume).
"I ain't goin' home without my fuckin' metrocards. They were hidden in my shoe, what did you do with 'em?"
"Your shoes? I threw them away."
"What the FUCK is wrong with you man? You threw my shoes away?"
"Yep."
"Where the fuck are they?"
"Gone."
Throwing up his hands and walking away, the angry man said matter of factly "You're gonna get shot." And left to retrieve his gun.
It was at this point that we covered our faces with the newspaper and started running down Avenue A towards Chinatown and the parked car.
When we got to the car it had been keyed and there was a $75 parking ticket on the windshield. Furious and terrified we set out to see the apartment in Astoria, Queens. 45 Minutes later when we still hadn't arrived in Astoria, we called the landlord to ask for directions.
"What do you see around you? Any landmark buildings?" He asked us.
"Nothing," I replied, "Just highway and hills."
"You must be in New Jersey. You went the wrong way on the tunnel, you gotta turn around, go back through Manhattan, and out the other side to Queens."
On the verge of tears, we turned around. 2 Hours after our expected arrival, we pulled up in front of the apartment building. It was nondescript and the apartment was on the first floor, which made me nervous in the city. We were let inside and were happy to find that both bedrooms were a decent size, along with a small but reasonable living room, kitchen, and bathroom. It all had nice woodwork, hardwood floors. and was freshly painted white. Wanting to be done with the search already after having only seen 2 apartments, we took it.
At $1,600 a month, we shelled out $4,800 for first, last, and security deposit. I'd never written a check for that much before. The instant his sausage fingers closed around it, I regretted the entire operation. We drove home, trying to be excited that we found an apartment and convince ourselves that we hadn't made a huge mistake.
The following week we packed up our meager belongings and drove our U-Haul to New York City during a snowstorm. With help from friends and family, it didn't take too long to get everything inside. They left right after the last box was in, trying to get home before the snow got worse and roads started to close. Leanne and I wandered around the apartment in a daze, stumbling around boxes and half-assembled furniture. It felt entirely like a dream. We'd try and look out the windows to confirm that we were in fact in our new home in the middle of New York City, but all we could see was white.
That evening, trying to focus on unpacking and getting settled, we started to see all the flaws in the apartment. My room faced a busy street and people could peer inside easily. Paranoid, I threw a blanket across the windows and unpacked in the dark because there was no overhead light or lightswitch. I rummaged through my boxes and pulled out a desk lamp for some light. I hunted around, tripping over boxes, searching the walls for an outlet—there was only one. One solitary outlet in my entire room. Walking out into the living room, I searched the walls—one outlet. The kitchen—one outlet. I walked into Leanne's room where she sat on the floor, crying quietly into a balled-up sweater.
"Whats wrong?" I asked, leaning down to hug her.
"There's no outlets. There's no closet. There's no stairs on the fire escape outside my window. This place is ridiculous. There's a window in the living room that faces a brick wall, and below there is just a pit. A dark, scary bottomless pit."
Things never really improved in the apartment. We had a fly infestation, a moth infestation, a roach infestation, an Asian Long-Horned beetle infestation, mice in our walls, and a sketchy-as-hell landlord who lived upstairs and would disappear for months at a time—sending thugs to bang on our door and collect our rent checks. We also figured out that there was a gaggle of 20-somethings living in the unfinished basement. It was unclear if they were squatting or if they were illegally renting the space, but they would come and go without speaking to either of us. The only way we'd even know if they were home is when we'd smell pot smoke wafting through our floor vents.
Through the Summer months, our apartment was so hot that we would stay locked in our bedrooms with our window air conditioners on—plugged into our solitary outlet—and sit in the dark. It was near impossible to sleep with the deafening city sounds after growing up in the country. Outside of Leanne's window facing away from the street, she had to put up with the constant barking of a pit bull, the shrill fighting of an unhappy couple, and the blasting latin music from a neighbor's boombox. At the front of the house, I got to hear the drunk people walking by my window and shouting, car horns, car alarms, ambulances, and sirens. Most of these nights we would stumble out of our rooms and into the living room, looking exhausted, sweaty, naked, and generally defeated. There we would sit on the couch together, watching reruns and late-night infomercials on basic cable from the television plugged into our single living room outlet.
When our lease was up, we moved into a different apartment in Long Island City, Queens. Our address was easy to remember—2548 44th st, 3R. Simple, right? This time not only did we get suckered into first and last month's rent plus security deposit, but we also had to pay a realtor's fee, making it a more expensive apartment than our last one even though the rent was a mere $1450/month. Again, the place seemed great at the time. 2 nice bedrooms, huge living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Because it was so full of the current tenant's junk when we looked at it, we didnt get to do a thorough inspection. It wasn't until we moved in that we went around counting electrical outlets—one in each bedroom again. None in the kitchen except what the fridge and stove were already plugged into. None in the bathroom.
Our first week there we heard the all too familiar sound of scratching between our bedroom walls, complete with wood shavings and mouse droppings everywhere. The apartment was on the 3rd floor of a 4-story walk-up, and the heat during the summer was unrelenting. If you left milk on the counter, it soured in minutes. We had a bag of potatoes in the cabinet that went bad within a week. Leanne reached up, pulled the top of the plastic bag off the shelf, and the bag swung downwards and back upwards at her face, spraying a trail of rotten potato juice all over her clothes and face. It was the color of bile. She vomited on the floor.
Some other highlights from this apartment include it being a 20-minute, agonizing walk to the nearest train or bus station, the landlord spoke no English, it was near a police station so we could hear every siren wailing as a police car raced by, and also near the La Guardia airport so we could hear every low-flying plane break the sound barrier. We broke our lease and moved back home after six months at the second apartment. We had both gone through about 10-15 jobs each, all of our cash, and all of our patience.
If you value any shred of solitude, quiet, savings, cleanliness, or courtesy from your fellow man, then this is not the city for you to live in. By all means, visit, but for the love of Pete, don't stay! And to those of you 8.3 million people from New York City, I'd tell you to go to hell, but you're already there.
In the year 2010, New York City is currently estimated to house 8.3 million people. The entire population of the United States is currently estimated at 307 million. That means roughly 2.7% of the United States' population is in New York City alone. Did you know that Manhattan in its entirety is 23 square miles? And that it holds 1.6+ million people? That's 66,490 people per square mile. The population density of the entire United States is approximately 76 people per square mile.
So what do all these numbers translate to in real life? Basically it means that New York City is an overcrowded, loud, filthy cesspool where dreams go to die. Sure, some of you starving artists might make a name for yourselves in the Big Apple, but most of you will be on the next Fung Wah bus home. Even if only 1% of the population in NYC is aspiring to realize the same dream as you, that means you have 83,000 competitors. Are you really a better actor, writer, singer, dancer, artist, or stock broker than 83,000 neighbors? I thought not. I tell you these things not to crush your spirit, I simply want to save you from a non-refundable security deposit, first, and last month's rent, and probably a realtor/finder's fee—a combined price tag averaging $4,950 for a one-bedroom in the city limits.
If I haven't successfully scared you off this notion of moving to New York City to follow your dreams, let me tell you one of my many personal tales of woe when moving there.
Doe-eyed and innocent, my friend Leanne and I hopped into my car the weekend before we were supposed to move to NYC. Our mission was to drive into Manhattan, secure a cheap apartment, and move in the following week. A week's time might not seem like enough to get an apartment and move, but we were assured by many people, realtors included, to wait until the last minute to find a place. The turnover rate for rentals in the city is so high that nobody lists apartments more than a month ahead of time—and if they do, there is something horribly wrong with it.
We scraped together our pennies, printed out some craigslist ads, and went in search of the perfect 2-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Our first stop: the East Village. We arrived an hour late because of traffic and taking the wrong bridge that instead led us directly into a Chinatown fish market. The smell was unbearable and it was impossible to get around when all the roads were either blocked off by police or by giant dragon floats. We instead parked the car as soon as we could and walked to our first appointment.
We knocked on the door of the seemingly nice building but got no response. We rang the bell. Nothing. We knocked a little louder. Nothing. We called the contact number listed. Nothing. Frustrated, we turned to walk away when the door banged open. A middle-aged woman in an over-sized t-shirt with no bra was standing there squinting at us.
"Yeahhh?" She asked with a New Jersey accent.
"Hi, we're here to see the apartment...sorry we're late. Are you the person we spoke to over email?"
"Naw. I'm here with my boyfriend from Jersey. We just stayed the night...partied a little too hard and just woke up. My cousin couldn't be here. You wanna come in and see the place?"
"Sure."
We went inside and had to shuffle sideways down the extremely narrow (and obviously illegal) hallway to the first bedroom. Asleep in a sleeping bag surrounded by cigarette butts and empty cans of Miller Light was the boyfriend. The room couldn't have been bigger than 10' x 10' and being on the first floor with a window right onto 1st avenue, it was extremely loud. We were then ushered into the "second bedroom" which actually had us giggling. We had to take turns going in and out of the room because it wouldn't fit more than 2 people at a time. It housed no bed, only a small secretary desk against one wall, and that's all it would allow. With one doorway into the other bedroom and another doorway into the kitchen, it was more like a nexus than a room—it had no windows, no closet, and no floor—just subflooring.
Continuing into the kitchen we encountered an ungodly smell accompanied with a sink full of month-old dishes and grime. There was a fully-formed spiderweb complete with eggsacs on one of the faux-wood cabinets, and in place of a pull-out drawer underneath the countertop was a layer of duct tape.
Sitting in a park right outside the building after having seen the horrors within, we collected ourselves and began to scour over the city's newspaper for apartment listings—the Village Voice. Finding nothing else in Manhattan within even $500 of our price range, we decided it might be best to try extending our search into the burroughs. We'd both heard good things about Queens so we called a few places in an up and coming neighborhood called Astoria. All but one were already rented so we agreed to go see it.
As I was hanging up the phone with Lucas—our future landlord, a fight was breaking out between two homeless men on a bench across from us. It went a little something like this:
"Hey fuck-face, where's my fucking Metrocards?" (Metrocards are what you use to access NYC's subway system.)
"I dunno. I ain't seen 'em"
"Don't fuckin' lie to me Roger, I know you been looking at 'em."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Go home." (To the shelter, I assume).
"I ain't goin' home without my fuckin' metrocards. They were hidden in my shoe, what did you do with 'em?"
"Your shoes? I threw them away."
"What the FUCK is wrong with you man? You threw my shoes away?"
"Yep."
"Where the fuck are they?"
"Gone."
Throwing up his hands and walking away, the angry man said matter of factly "You're gonna get shot." And left to retrieve his gun.
It was at this point that we covered our faces with the newspaper and started running down Avenue A towards Chinatown and the parked car.
When we got to the car it had been keyed and there was a $75 parking ticket on the windshield. Furious and terrified we set out to see the apartment in Astoria, Queens. 45 Minutes later when we still hadn't arrived in Astoria, we called the landlord to ask for directions.
"What do you see around you? Any landmark buildings?" He asked us.
"Nothing," I replied, "Just highway and hills."
"You must be in New Jersey. You went the wrong way on the tunnel, you gotta turn around, go back through Manhattan, and out the other side to Queens."
On the verge of tears, we turned around. 2 Hours after our expected arrival, we pulled up in front of the apartment building. It was nondescript and the apartment was on the first floor, which made me nervous in the city. We were let inside and were happy to find that both bedrooms were a decent size, along with a small but reasonable living room, kitchen, and bathroom. It all had nice woodwork, hardwood floors. and was freshly painted white. Wanting to be done with the search already after having only seen 2 apartments, we took it.
At $1,600 a month, we shelled out $4,800 for first, last, and security deposit. I'd never written a check for that much before. The instant his sausage fingers closed around it, I regretted the entire operation. We drove home, trying to be excited that we found an apartment and convince ourselves that we hadn't made a huge mistake.
The following week we packed up our meager belongings and drove our U-Haul to New York City during a snowstorm. With help from friends and family, it didn't take too long to get everything inside. They left right after the last box was in, trying to get home before the snow got worse and roads started to close. Leanne and I wandered around the apartment in a daze, stumbling around boxes and half-assembled furniture. It felt entirely like a dream. We'd try and look out the windows to confirm that we were in fact in our new home in the middle of New York City, but all we could see was white.
That evening, trying to focus on unpacking and getting settled, we started to see all the flaws in the apartment. My room faced a busy street and people could peer inside easily. Paranoid, I threw a blanket across the windows and unpacked in the dark because there was no overhead light or lightswitch. I rummaged through my boxes and pulled out a desk lamp for some light. I hunted around, tripping over boxes, searching the walls for an outlet—there was only one. One solitary outlet in my entire room. Walking out into the living room, I searched the walls—one outlet. The kitchen—one outlet. I walked into Leanne's room where she sat on the floor, crying quietly into a balled-up sweater.
"Whats wrong?" I asked, leaning down to hug her.
"There's no outlets. There's no closet. There's no stairs on the fire escape outside my window. This place is ridiculous. There's a window in the living room that faces a brick wall, and below there is just a pit. A dark, scary bottomless pit."
Things never really improved in the apartment. We had a fly infestation, a moth infestation, a roach infestation, an Asian Long-Horned beetle infestation, mice in our walls, and a sketchy-as-hell landlord who lived upstairs and would disappear for months at a time—sending thugs to bang on our door and collect our rent checks. We also figured out that there was a gaggle of 20-somethings living in the unfinished basement. It was unclear if they were squatting or if they were illegally renting the space, but they would come and go without speaking to either of us. The only way we'd even know if they were home is when we'd smell pot smoke wafting through our floor vents.
Through the Summer months, our apartment was so hot that we would stay locked in our bedrooms with our window air conditioners on—plugged into our solitary outlet—and sit in the dark. It was near impossible to sleep with the deafening city sounds after growing up in the country. Outside of Leanne's window facing away from the street, she had to put up with the constant barking of a pit bull, the shrill fighting of an unhappy couple, and the blasting latin music from a neighbor's boombox. At the front of the house, I got to hear the drunk people walking by my window and shouting, car horns, car alarms, ambulances, and sirens. Most of these nights we would stumble out of our rooms and into the living room, looking exhausted, sweaty, naked, and generally defeated. There we would sit on the couch together, watching reruns and late-night infomercials on basic cable from the television plugged into our single living room outlet.
When our lease was up, we moved into a different apartment in Long Island City, Queens. Our address was easy to remember—2548 44th st, 3R. Simple, right? This time not only did we get suckered into first and last month's rent plus security deposit, but we also had to pay a realtor's fee, making it a more expensive apartment than our last one even though the rent was a mere $1450/month. Again, the place seemed great at the time. 2 nice bedrooms, huge living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Because it was so full of the current tenant's junk when we looked at it, we didnt get to do a thorough inspection. It wasn't until we moved in that we went around counting electrical outlets—one in each bedroom again. None in the kitchen except what the fridge and stove were already plugged into. None in the bathroom.
Some other highlights from this apartment include it being a 20-minute, agonizing walk to the nearest train or bus station, the landlord spoke no English, it was near a police station so we could hear every siren wailing as a police car raced by, and also near the La Guardia airport so we could hear every low-flying plane break the sound barrier. We broke our lease and moved back home after six months at the second apartment. We had both gone through about 10-15 jobs each, all of our cash, and all of our patience.
If you value any shred of solitude, quiet, savings, cleanliness, or courtesy from your fellow man, then this is not the city for you to live in. By all means, visit, but for the love of Pete, don't stay! And to those of you 8.3 million people from New York City, I'd tell you to go to hell, but you're already there.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Arena Registration
Every school has their own methods of signing up students for classes. Many are now conducted purely online from the comfort of your own home or dorm room—just point and click and you're all signed up for your next semester. A thing of beauty. In my days at Franklin Pierce College they opted for a different system: Arena Registration.
Arena Registration can best be described as an intellectual Holocaust. A hellish, maddening, senseless rite of passage that all students must endure each year. Hazing is forbidden at Franklin Pierce, yet Arena Registration is worse than any amount of fraternity punishment.
It starts out simple. You receive a package in your mailbox containing a letter that says when you're supposed to show up to the 'arena' (a gymnasium), and a booklet containing all the courses, numbers, professors, and schedules for the next semester's classes. All you need to do is show up, sign up, and you're done. A cake walk. 5, maybe 10 minutes and you'll be cruising out of there to enjoy your afternoon, class schedule in-hand. Hah! Dream on Freshman. The only way you leave Arena Registration is in a body bag or a straight jacket.
When you show up to your first Arena Registration at 8 a.m. you'll find a line snaking out of the building and circling the parking lot. You see sleeping bags, pillows, and coffee canisters littering the scene. Students who have already experienced this tragedy have learned to camp outside of the gym and be first in line come the morning. By 4 a.m. the line is already hundreds long. You will proceed to stand in this line for several hours without it moving. Only 200 students are allowed inside at a time, like some sort of exclusive, red-velvet rope nightclub. By noon you might actually make it to the entrance. An admissions officer with a clipboard will peruse the list for your name, give you a nametag, some papers, and a pencil. Now, you will finally be ushered inside.
On first glance, the scene before you can best be described as Ground Zero or the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Students are lined up at only 4 computer stations containing the class rosters. Other students are in line to mandatorily speak with a Financial Aid Officer. In another corner is a heap of students, sitting down, weeping and defeated. Tear-stained faces, shredded papers, trash, backpacks, and sleeping bags all blending together so it looks like an internment camp. Off to the side is a long table where many professors sit—their sole job to console students who can't get into their classes, or if they're lucky enough, to sign a permission slip and join an already full class. They are all drinking Irish coffee and mimosas. The sound of 20-year olds weeping, screaming, and running from line to line is defeaning as it echoes off the gym walls and floor. It sounds like you're in a front row mosh pit at a concert of misery.
Before you can begin sign ups, you must be cleared by the Bursar's Office and receive a stamp on your class sign-up sheet. No stamp, no classes. Period. So you will wait in this line just to be berated by the financial aid staff for not ponying up enough tuition. If you are seriously behind payment schedule, you will be sent out of Arena Registration to go wait in a separate line at the actual Financial Aid building. One in every 3 students leaves this line sobbing to trudge down to see the Bursar himself. We will never see these students again.
If you are lucky enough to get the financial stamp of approval on your sign-up sheet, you will move onto a fresh hell. Now you have to wait in line at one of the computers to check the availability of the classes you want to sign up for. Panic will start to rise as you see student after student in front of you leave the computer station in a rage, fists clenched, knuckles white, and sign-up sheets blank or smudged after being erased several times. You'll want to call out to them "What is it?! What's going on?! What can I expect when I get up there?! Please! Tell me something!" But they are dead men walking.
When you sit down at the computer station, you will start typing in all of the class titles that you want or need to take. You'll start with the general education classes first—the ones required to graduate. Your first searches look incredibly grim:
Environmental Science
FULL
College Writing I
FULL
Science of Society I
FULL
Data and Statistics
FULL
Okay, clearly all the general education classes you wanted to take are full. You'll move onto the classes that fall within your major. In my case it would look something like this:
Graphic Design I
FULL
Color Theory
FULL
Typography I
FULL
Periodical Publication
FULL
Designing for the Web
FULL
At this point you'll start to sweat. How can this be? Every class?
Desperate, you'll write down your original schedule and run over to the table of Professors to ask their permission to join their already full classes.
"Is there a Professor Rosebush here?" You'll announce to the table.
"I'm Professor Rosebush. Can I help you?" One of the tired, sad faces will reply.
"Can I join your full Typography class?"
"I'm afraid I've already signed up 2 additional students already. I don't have room for more. How about my papier-mâché class instead? There's plenty of room there."
"uhhh...no thanks. Is there a Professor Justice here?"
"No sorry, Justice left early."
"Can someone else here sign me into his Graphic Design class?"
"No, sorry. Only the course professor can do that."
WTF.
"Is there a Professor Cadence here?" You'll bark, trepidation taking over.
"I'm here" a tiny voice will reply from down the table.
"Can I join your Color Theory class? It's full and it's a required class for my major."
"Certainly. The more the merrier."
Finally. A ray of hope. Thank you Cadence. Thank you.
"Oh...wait...have you taken 'Graphic Design I' yet?" The Professor asks.
"No. I wanted to sign up for it, but, big surprise, it's full. The professor isn't here to sign me in."
"I'm afraid I can't sign you into my class either then. Graphic Design I is a prerequisite for this course."
oh....my...god...
Now is about the time you'll go join the heap of disheveled, disheartened students weeping in the corner. You'll try to regroup and come up with an alternative course schedule only to go back to the computer station and find them all full.
Rinse. Repeat. Weep.
Around 6 pm when they are about to close their doors, you will pull together some semblance of a schedule and leave—sweaty, battered, and angry. You will look over your schedule for the next year of your life and weep all the way back to your tiny dorm—your own little Trail of Tears.
Semester 1:
Papier-mâché
Intermediate Algebra I
Integrated Earth Science I
Reason and Romanticism
Remedial English Lit. II
Semester 2:
Basketweaving
Stained Glass
The History of History
German I
Women's Studies
Next year you will be one of the beggars camped outside the 'arena.' Until then, anytime a newcomer asks you when they should show up to Arena Registration, you will tell them it only takes a few minutes and to go around lunch time.
Welcome to hell.
Arena Registration can best be described as an intellectual Holocaust. A hellish, maddening, senseless rite of passage that all students must endure each year. Hazing is forbidden at Franklin Pierce, yet Arena Registration is worse than any amount of fraternity punishment.
It starts out simple. You receive a package in your mailbox containing a letter that says when you're supposed to show up to the 'arena' (a gymnasium), and a booklet containing all the courses, numbers, professors, and schedules for the next semester's classes. All you need to do is show up, sign up, and you're done. A cake walk. 5, maybe 10 minutes and you'll be cruising out of there to enjoy your afternoon, class schedule in-hand. Hah! Dream on Freshman. The only way you leave Arena Registration is in a body bag or a straight jacket.
When you show up to your first Arena Registration at 8 a.m. you'll find a line snaking out of the building and circling the parking lot. You see sleeping bags, pillows, and coffee canisters littering the scene. Students who have already experienced this tragedy have learned to camp outside of the gym and be first in line come the morning. By 4 a.m. the line is already hundreds long. You will proceed to stand in this line for several hours without it moving. Only 200 students are allowed inside at a time, like some sort of exclusive, red-velvet rope nightclub. By noon you might actually make it to the entrance. An admissions officer with a clipboard will peruse the list for your name, give you a nametag, some papers, and a pencil. Now, you will finally be ushered inside.
On first glance, the scene before you can best be described as Ground Zero or the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Students are lined up at only 4 computer stations containing the class rosters. Other students are in line to mandatorily speak with a Financial Aid Officer. In another corner is a heap of students, sitting down, weeping and defeated. Tear-stained faces, shredded papers, trash, backpacks, and sleeping bags all blending together so it looks like an internment camp. Off to the side is a long table where many professors sit—their sole job to console students who can't get into their classes, or if they're lucky enough, to sign a permission slip and join an already full class. They are all drinking Irish coffee and mimosas. The sound of 20-year olds weeping, screaming, and running from line to line is defeaning as it echoes off the gym walls and floor. It sounds like you're in a front row mosh pit at a concert of misery.
Before you can begin sign ups, you must be cleared by the Bursar's Office and receive a stamp on your class sign-up sheet. No stamp, no classes. Period. So you will wait in this line just to be berated by the financial aid staff for not ponying up enough tuition. If you are seriously behind payment schedule, you will be sent out of Arena Registration to go wait in a separate line at the actual Financial Aid building. One in every 3 students leaves this line sobbing to trudge down to see the Bursar himself. We will never see these students again.
If you are lucky enough to get the financial stamp of approval on your sign-up sheet, you will move onto a fresh hell. Now you have to wait in line at one of the computers to check the availability of the classes you want to sign up for. Panic will start to rise as you see student after student in front of you leave the computer station in a rage, fists clenched, knuckles white, and sign-up sheets blank or smudged after being erased several times. You'll want to call out to them "What is it?! What's going on?! What can I expect when I get up there?! Please! Tell me something!" But they are dead men walking.
When you sit down at the computer station, you will start typing in all of the class titles that you want or need to take. You'll start with the general education classes first—the ones required to graduate. Your first searches look incredibly grim:
Environmental Science
FULL
College Writing I
FULL
Science of Society I
FULL
Data and Statistics
FULL
Okay, clearly all the general education classes you wanted to take are full. You'll move onto the classes that fall within your major. In my case it would look something like this:
Graphic Design I
FULL
Color Theory
FULL
Typography I
FULL
Periodical Publication
FULL
Designing for the Web
FULL
At this point you'll start to sweat. How can this be? Every class?
Desperate, you'll write down your original schedule and run over to the table of Professors to ask their permission to join their already full classes.
"Is there a Professor Rosebush here?" You'll announce to the table.
"I'm Professor Rosebush. Can I help you?" One of the tired, sad faces will reply.
"Can I join your full Typography class?"
"I'm afraid I've already signed up 2 additional students already. I don't have room for more. How about my papier-mâché class instead? There's plenty of room there."
"uhhh...no thanks. Is there a Professor Justice here?"
"No sorry, Justice left early."
"Can someone else here sign me into his Graphic Design class?"
"No, sorry. Only the course professor can do that."
WTF.
"Is there a Professor Cadence here?" You'll bark, trepidation taking over.
"I'm here" a tiny voice will reply from down the table.
"Can I join your Color Theory class? It's full and it's a required class for my major."
"Certainly. The more the merrier."
Finally. A ray of hope. Thank you Cadence. Thank you.
"Oh...wait...have you taken 'Graphic Design I' yet?" The Professor asks.
"No. I wanted to sign up for it, but, big surprise, it's full. The professor isn't here to sign me in."
"I'm afraid I can't sign you into my class either then. Graphic Design I is a prerequisite for this course."
oh....my...god...
Now is about the time you'll go join the heap of disheveled, disheartened students weeping in the corner. You'll try to regroup and come up with an alternative course schedule only to go back to the computer station and find them all full.
Rinse. Repeat. Weep.
Around 6 pm when they are about to close their doors, you will pull together some semblance of a schedule and leave—sweaty, battered, and angry. You will look over your schedule for the next year of your life and weep all the way back to your tiny dorm—your own little Trail of Tears.
Semester 1:
Papier-mâché
Intermediate Algebra I
Integrated Earth Science I
Reason and Romanticism
Remedial English Lit. II
Semester 2:
Basketweaving
Stained Glass
The History of History
German I
Women's Studies
Next year you will be one of the beggars camped outside the 'arena.' Until then, anytime a newcomer asks you when they should show up to Arena Registration, you will tell them it only takes a few minutes and to go around lunch time.
Welcome to hell.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
To the Oblivious Bitch Across the Street
Dear Oblivious Bitch,
If your complete and utter obliviousness to those around you didn't cause me to lose sleep, it would actually be kind of funny.
This morning your dog woke me up at 6 a.m. with its shrill barking. I closed my window, turned on a loud fan, and tried to go back to sleep, desperate for more zzz's before the alarm was set to go off at 8. I got none. Your dog continued to bark incessantly for the next 2 hours. At 8 a.m., wide awake, I smashed my alarm off, ripped off my comforter, stomped out of bed and over to the window to see where this little hellhound was yapping from. Then I saw you on your front steps.
Sitting there, a cell phone in one hand and a leash connected to a min pin (miniature pinscher) in the other. What the hell is wrong with you?! You've been sitting on your apartment building steps for 2 hours talking on the phone while your shit-for-brains dog is barking into space? Who could you possibly be talking to for two hours at 6 a.m. outside? How can you possibly hear them over the banshee cries of your mutt? How can the person on the other line possibly hear you and tolerate it? Are they sitting on their stoop with a leashed up, rabid dog, infuriating all of their neighbors too? What a delightful little club you've started—the Stupid, Oblivious Bitches with Barking Bitches Club.
A middle-aged black woman, you are clearly old enough to grasp the concept of what you're doing. At any point in the past 2 hours you could have made your dog quiet down. I never once heard you yell at it. At any point you could have taken it inside and locked it up, put it in the dryer on high. At any point you yourself could have gone inside to finish your important conversation and taken your mutant offspring with you. At any point you could have gotten up and walked it down the street to the park not 2 blocks away—you know, the one not surrounded by sleeping people? You didn't. You took no action except sit there gabbing away, oblivious to anyone around you—including your dog. No better than a stupid teenager at the mall.
You left me no choice. I leashed up my own dog—an adopted 55 lb chow chow mix with a deep hatred for people of color (after a history of abuse), and headed out the door. We marched right over to your stoop and stood in front of it. Once your little yap-fiend saw my dog coming, he quieted right down. I stood above you, my dog tightly leashed at my side, but already starting to bark and snarl—as I myself would like to have done. Giving me a dirty look, you said your lengthy goodbyes to your friend and hung up the phone.
"You're a very rude boy," You said glaring at me. "I have every right to talk on the phone on my property. What's your problem? You don't know me. Get your dog away from me. He's mean."
"Hold on a second." I said flatly, and took out my cell phone.
I pretended to make a phone call while my dog continued his menacing barking and gutteral growls at you. You continued spewing nasty comments my way, but I just kept loosening my hold on the leash. My dog was slowly edging closer to you.
"Stop it right now!" You hollered, getting up and backing up a step. I slackened the leash. Closer he got.
"I mean it! Stop it right now before I call the cops!"
Closer.
"Get the hell away from me!"
Closer.
"Asshole!"
Closer
"Fuck you and your dog! You don't scare me!"
I let go of the leash.
"Ahhhh!" You cried and ran inside with Precious, slamming the door behind you.
With my foot on top of my dog's leash, he was secured the whole time. Next time, it won't be.
If your complete and utter obliviousness to those around you didn't cause me to lose sleep, it would actually be kind of funny.
This morning your dog woke me up at 6 a.m. with its shrill barking. I closed my window, turned on a loud fan, and tried to go back to sleep, desperate for more zzz's before the alarm was set to go off at 8. I got none. Your dog continued to bark incessantly for the next 2 hours. At 8 a.m., wide awake, I smashed my alarm off, ripped off my comforter, stomped out of bed and over to the window to see where this little hellhound was yapping from. Then I saw you on your front steps.
Sitting there, a cell phone in one hand and a leash connected to a min pin (miniature pinscher) in the other. What the hell is wrong with you?! You've been sitting on your apartment building steps for 2 hours talking on the phone while your shit-for-brains dog is barking into space? Who could you possibly be talking to for two hours at 6 a.m. outside? How can you possibly hear them over the banshee cries of your mutt? How can the person on the other line possibly hear you and tolerate it? Are they sitting on their stoop with a leashed up, rabid dog, infuriating all of their neighbors too? What a delightful little club you've started—the Stupid, Oblivious Bitches with Barking Bitches Club.
A middle-aged black woman, you are clearly old enough to grasp the concept of what you're doing. At any point in the past 2 hours you could have made your dog quiet down. I never once heard you yell at it. At any point you could have taken it inside and locked it up, put it in the dryer on high. At any point you yourself could have gone inside to finish your important conversation and taken your mutant offspring with you. At any point you could have gotten up and walked it down the street to the park not 2 blocks away—you know, the one not surrounded by sleeping people? You didn't. You took no action except sit there gabbing away, oblivious to anyone around you—including your dog. No better than a stupid teenager at the mall.
You left me no choice. I leashed up my own dog—an adopted 55 lb chow chow mix with a deep hatred for people of color (after a history of abuse), and headed out the door. We marched right over to your stoop and stood in front of it. Once your little yap-fiend saw my dog coming, he quieted right down. I stood above you, my dog tightly leashed at my side, but already starting to bark and snarl—as I myself would like to have done. Giving me a dirty look, you said your lengthy goodbyes to your friend and hung up the phone.
"You're a very rude boy," You said glaring at me. "I have every right to talk on the phone on my property. What's your problem? You don't know me. Get your dog away from me. He's mean."
"Hold on a second." I said flatly, and took out my cell phone.
I pretended to make a phone call while my dog continued his menacing barking and gutteral growls at you. You continued spewing nasty comments my way, but I just kept loosening my hold on the leash. My dog was slowly edging closer to you.
"Stop it right now!" You hollered, getting up and backing up a step. I slackened the leash. Closer he got.
"I mean it! Stop it right now before I call the cops!"
Closer.
"Get the hell away from me!"
Closer.
"Asshole!"
Closer
"Fuck you and your dog! You don't scare me!"
I let go of the leash.
"Ahhhh!" You cried and ran inside with Precious, slamming the door behind you.
With my foot on top of my dog's leash, he was secured the whole time. Next time, it won't be.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Volunteer Fire Fighters
What I remember most about my college experience at Franklin Pierce College is not the classes, friendships, professors, or graduation. It is the campus Volunteer Fire Fighters Club. What could possibly be the reason for this? I'm glad you asked. Two vivid memories stick out among the many.
When I was a sophomore I got screwed and was forced into the Freshman dorms. Not only are they co-ed, small (12' x 10' for 2 people), old, dirty, and dilapidated, but they also had the added bonus of housing the campus fire truck in the basement. At any given time of day or night, a fire truck engine could be heard roaring to life and a siren start to wail directly beneath the dorm. It was utterly deafening. The sound would reverberate though the hallways and creep into our tiny rooms and echo so loudly that we all but had to evacuate until the fire truck pulled out of the basement garage.
If it all possible, the fire truck was in even worse shape than the dormitory that housed it. Circa 1930—it had original parts. Boxy, clunky, and faded red, a replacement step ladder strapped to the top, old hoses, rusty brass and nickle handle bars for riding on the side, and gold lettering that used to read FIRE DEPARTMENT before mostly succumbing to old age—now all that remains is FIR MENT. I used to marvel at this antiquity when in the basement doing my laundry right next to this behemoth. Dodging its falling down parts and sharp bits sticking out—like some twisted coral reef. It even has a distinct smell. Something akin to mustard and diesel fuel. If there was ever a fire emergency you didn't even need the siren of the fire truck to announce its immenent arrival, you could simply smell the noxious exhaust fumes pouring out of its economy sized tailpipe or see the black cloud that followed it.
Franklin Pierce is a small school, housing roughly 1,500 students total. How could there possibly be enough fires to merit a Volunteer Fire Department on campus? Simple. Most of the fire emergencies were caused by the Fire Department.
The first time I had the pleasure of witnessing the utter ineptitude of the Fire Club, was in the dead of Winter in 2002. New Hampshire winters are brutal. One January morning as my roommate and I were sound asleep we were awakened by the building's fire alarm. At first we thought it was the fire truck's siren, but this shrill was coming from the hallway accompanied by flashing lights. In our pajamas we went out into the hallway to see all the groggy, confused Freshmen stumbling out of their rooms. Unsure if it was a prank, we lingered in the hallway in a daze until over a bull-horn we heard one of the student Fire Fighters yell THIS IS NOT A DRILL. EXIT THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. THERE IS A FIRE IN THE BASEMENT. REMAIN CALM.
We all quickly ran down the 4 flights of stairs and out into the courtyard a safe distance from the building. A dark Winter's night with only some dim street lights on, we could just make out thick, dark smoke pouring out of the basement windows from the laundry room.
Several more Fire Fighters arrived on the scene and were conferring on their next steps. RA's were taking roll call for their floors to make sure no students were missing. Everyone was starting to panic about all the stuff they had left in their dorm rooms to burn. I had nothing of value and I was freezing to the bone, so I started walking way from the courtyard and towards the next building, hoping to take warm solace in the lobby.
Halfway to the next building I looked back as I heard one of the firefighters start calling out orders to attach a hose to the fire hydrant in front of the dorm. Under the circumstances I was impressed with how quickly and calmly they were working. I could see a hose being set up and the loud clank of a wrench being used on a rusty hydrant. This is actually kinda cool. I thought. I've never seen a big fire being put out in person. I continued into the lobby of the neighboring building. Warmth flooded over me and I had a fantastic view of the unfolding scene. Off to the side, I could see the smokey building, the fire fighters directly infront of it finishing up the hose attachment, and the sea of Freshmen a safe 20 yards behind them watching intently.
The scene that unfolded will stay with me long into senility. A Fire Fighter holding the nozzle of the hose shouted OPEN IT UP and they let loose the hydrant valve. A tidal wave of unabated water flooded out of the open fire hydrant—directly into the crowd of shivering students. The blast was so strong that it knocked several unsuspecting kids right off their feet. Most were screaming and running away in their soaked pajamas, underwear, and slippers. No water was flowing out of the fire hose. I couldn't help laughing as I watched my building going up in smoke, a sea of half-naked students being sprayed with icy water, and a band of Fire Fighters now starting to argue over what to do next.
Eventually the actual city Fire Department was called in to rescue the scene. It was discovered that there was no fire at all. Somebody had left the old fire truck in the basement running all night and the fumes finally erupted out of a cracked window. The building had to be treated for carbon monoxide disposal and many of the students for hypothermia. It still brings a smile to my face thinking about it.
The other major fire emergency that comes to mind was in my junior year, while living in a much nicer building where all the apartments had 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and 2 bathrooms for 4 students. I lived with other gay boys and metrosexuals so our apartments was kept pretty clean. Across the hall however were some slovenly girls. Whenever their door was opened I could see the beer cans, ashtrays, and trash littering their living room floor as well as their mountain of dishes piled in the sink.
One day the smoke alarm in their kitchen started to go off. I went out into the hallway between our apartments and knocked on their door. A disheveled girl answered and apologized for the alarm—that there was no need to worry, she was just cooking something on the stove top and it was getting smokey. I said it was no problem at all and returned to my apartment.
A couple minutes later I returned and knocked on her door after the alarm was still sounding. She opened it to reveal a small fire erupting from a frying pan on the stove top.
"I don't know whats happening. I was just making stir fry and the pan's on fire!" She shouted over the alarm.
As if hearing her distress call, a volunteer Fire Fighter charged through the hallway looking for the source of the alarm which he had been notified of. He brushed past us into the kitchen, took one look at the situation and began immediate action. First he turned the gas stove top off. Then he removed the flaming, slowly-melting pan from the burner and put it into the sink area. The sink was so totally full of dishes that there was no room for it to actually fit under the faucet. Instead he reach around the dirty dish pile, turned the water on, and grabbed the extendable faucet hose intending to spray down the flames.
At this point I interjected with "I don't think you're supposed to use water on a grease fire!" But I don't think I was heard over the sounding alarm.
He sprayed the pan and the flames exploded upward to ignite the particle board cabinetry above the sink. Quickly it began spreading into a formiddable blaze.
"SHIT!" He screamed and ordered us to evacuate while he called for help on his walkie talkie.
The building was evacuated and we all watched from outside as the girls' apartment went up like tinder. I'm sure all of the booze lying around the kitchen and living room didn't help matters any. Again, the city Fire Department was called in to the rescue. Aside from a blackened kitchen and living room, the apartment was otherwise untouched and nobody was harmed.
The fire extinguisher located in their living room was also unharmed. Thank goodness.
When I was a sophomore I got screwed and was forced into the Freshman dorms. Not only are they co-ed, small (12' x 10' for 2 people), old, dirty, and dilapidated, but they also had the added bonus of housing the campus fire truck in the basement. At any given time of day or night, a fire truck engine could be heard roaring to life and a siren start to wail directly beneath the dorm. It was utterly deafening. The sound would reverberate though the hallways and creep into our tiny rooms and echo so loudly that we all but had to evacuate until the fire truck pulled out of the basement garage.
If it all possible, the fire truck was in even worse shape than the dormitory that housed it. Circa 1930—it had original parts. Boxy, clunky, and faded red, a replacement step ladder strapped to the top, old hoses, rusty brass and nickle handle bars for riding on the side, and gold lettering that used to read FIRE DEPARTMENT before mostly succumbing to old age—now all that remains is FIR MENT. I used to marvel at this antiquity when in the basement doing my laundry right next to this behemoth. Dodging its falling down parts and sharp bits sticking out—like some twisted coral reef. It even has a distinct smell. Something akin to mustard and diesel fuel. If there was ever a fire emergency you didn't even need the siren of the fire truck to announce its immenent arrival, you could simply smell the noxious exhaust fumes pouring out of its economy sized tailpipe or see the black cloud that followed it.Franklin Pierce is a small school, housing roughly 1,500 students total. How could there possibly be enough fires to merit a Volunteer Fire Department on campus? Simple. Most of the fire emergencies were caused by the Fire Department.
The first time I had the pleasure of witnessing the utter ineptitude of the Fire Club, was in the dead of Winter in 2002. New Hampshire winters are brutal. One January morning as my roommate and I were sound asleep we were awakened by the building's fire alarm. At first we thought it was the fire truck's siren, but this shrill was coming from the hallway accompanied by flashing lights. In our pajamas we went out into the hallway to see all the groggy, confused Freshmen stumbling out of their rooms. Unsure if it was a prank, we lingered in the hallway in a daze until over a bull-horn we heard one of the student Fire Fighters yell THIS IS NOT A DRILL. EXIT THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. THERE IS A FIRE IN THE BASEMENT. REMAIN CALM.
We all quickly ran down the 4 flights of stairs and out into the courtyard a safe distance from the building. A dark Winter's night with only some dim street lights on, we could just make out thick, dark smoke pouring out of the basement windows from the laundry room.
Several more Fire Fighters arrived on the scene and were conferring on their next steps. RA's were taking roll call for their floors to make sure no students were missing. Everyone was starting to panic about all the stuff they had left in their dorm rooms to burn. I had nothing of value and I was freezing to the bone, so I started walking way from the courtyard and towards the next building, hoping to take warm solace in the lobby.
Halfway to the next building I looked back as I heard one of the firefighters start calling out orders to attach a hose to the fire hydrant in front of the dorm. Under the circumstances I was impressed with how quickly and calmly they were working. I could see a hose being set up and the loud clank of a wrench being used on a rusty hydrant. This is actually kinda cool. I thought. I've never seen a big fire being put out in person. I continued into the lobby of the neighboring building. Warmth flooded over me and I had a fantastic view of the unfolding scene. Off to the side, I could see the smokey building, the fire fighters directly infront of it finishing up the hose attachment, and the sea of Freshmen a safe 20 yards behind them watching intently.
The scene that unfolded will stay with me long into senility. A Fire Fighter holding the nozzle of the hose shouted OPEN IT UP and they let loose the hydrant valve. A tidal wave of unabated water flooded out of the open fire hydrant—directly into the crowd of shivering students. The blast was so strong that it knocked several unsuspecting kids right off their feet. Most were screaming and running away in their soaked pajamas, underwear, and slippers. No water was flowing out of the fire hose. I couldn't help laughing as I watched my building going up in smoke, a sea of half-naked students being sprayed with icy water, and a band of Fire Fighters now starting to argue over what to do next.
Eventually the actual city Fire Department was called in to rescue the scene. It was discovered that there was no fire at all. Somebody had left the old fire truck in the basement running all night and the fumes finally erupted out of a cracked window. The building had to be treated for carbon monoxide disposal and many of the students for hypothermia. It still brings a smile to my face thinking about it.
The other major fire emergency that comes to mind was in my junior year, while living in a much nicer building where all the apartments had 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and 2 bathrooms for 4 students. I lived with other gay boys and metrosexuals so our apartments was kept pretty clean. Across the hall however were some slovenly girls. Whenever their door was opened I could see the beer cans, ashtrays, and trash littering their living room floor as well as their mountain of dishes piled in the sink.
One day the smoke alarm in their kitchen started to go off. I went out into the hallway between our apartments and knocked on their door. A disheveled girl answered and apologized for the alarm—that there was no need to worry, she was just cooking something on the stove top and it was getting smokey. I said it was no problem at all and returned to my apartment.
A couple minutes later I returned and knocked on her door after the alarm was still sounding. She opened it to reveal a small fire erupting from a frying pan on the stove top.
"I don't know whats happening. I was just making stir fry and the pan's on fire!" She shouted over the alarm.
As if hearing her distress call, a volunteer Fire Fighter charged through the hallway looking for the source of the alarm which he had been notified of. He brushed past us into the kitchen, took one look at the situation and began immediate action. First he turned the gas stove top off. Then he removed the flaming, slowly-melting pan from the burner and put it into the sink area. The sink was so totally full of dishes that there was no room for it to actually fit under the faucet. Instead he reach around the dirty dish pile, turned the water on, and grabbed the extendable faucet hose intending to spray down the flames.
At this point I interjected with "I don't think you're supposed to use water on a grease fire!" But I don't think I was heard over the sounding alarm.
He sprayed the pan and the flames exploded upward to ignite the particle board cabinetry above the sink. Quickly it began spreading into a formiddable blaze.
"SHIT!" He screamed and ordered us to evacuate while he called for help on his walkie talkie.
The building was evacuated and we all watched from outside as the girls' apartment went up like tinder. I'm sure all of the booze lying around the kitchen and living room didn't help matters any. Again, the city Fire Department was called in to the rescue. Aside from a blackened kitchen and living room, the apartment was otherwise untouched and nobody was harmed.
The fire extinguisher located in their living room was also unharmed. Thank goodness.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Letter to Dole
Dear Dole,
I must say I am disappointed.
I used to feel nothing but confidence when eating your fruit products. Now, I am racked with doubt. My faith in you has been shaken to its apple core. What's happened to my adoration of you? Don't play dumb, you know what you did. No? Fine, let me explain.
The other morning, I was devouring one of your prepackaged fruit products for breakfast. I love fruit, and I loved Dole. Your products always tasted fresh and sweet—from your bananas down right down to your tiny, adorable cans of pineapple juice. I mean seriously, how cute are those things? Even without the vodka I put in mine, they taste pretty good. I like your bright packaging, your affordability, and even your logo—"Dole" spelled out with a sunburst coming out of the "o". Simple, cute, organic, and best of all—an American company. One of those precious few American companies I can feel good about buying products from. It's not that I feel American products are superior to imports—I simply like to support American businesses, workers, and prevent unnecessary wasted resources in shipping something that can be made locally.
While eating my Dole "Diced Apples in light syrup" I was reading the packaging. To my horror, I discovered the sad truth to your little fly-by-night operation. "APPLES FROM CHINA" caught my eye first. Then "Packed in Thailand." Followed by "Manufactured by Dole Packaged Foods, LLC. Westlake Village, CA."
Let me see if I understand you Dole—it takes 3 countries to produce diced apples in light syrup? Are Chinese apples somehow superior to those found all across America? Do the Thai people have an unrivaled knack for packing Chinese apples? And then what exactly happens in California if the apples have already been picked, packed, and shipped? What does "manufactured" mean? You pour some sugar water into the container and call it "light syrup" then ship it off to grocery stores? I could understand all this shipping rigamarole if we were talking about a tropical fruit not native to the U.S., but we're talking about apples. I live in Massachusetts—birthplace of Johnny Appleseed. He would roll in his grave if he knew you were importing foreign apples. That is, If he has a grave? He may have been cremated...or killed. How DID Johnny Appleseed die? Oh well, it doesn't matter, in any event I'm sure he'd be furious. Now where was I...? Oh, right, your faulty, underhanded business dealings.
I continued to read the product packaging and saw the green text box containing "For more than 100 years, Dole has been committed to our environment, our employees and the communities in which we operate. To learn how, please visit www.dole.com." And so I did.
Far from redeeming yourselves, you maddened me further. The first attempt to visit dole.com crashed my computer after trying to load your site's layers of php, javascript, actionscript, and who knows what else—perhaps a virus? Some spyware? The second time your website opened only to reveal a crazy-looking, irritating, talking woman holding a colander full of strawberries (no doubt picked from Abu Dhabi, shipped from Turkey, manufactured in southern California, then shipped by airmail to northern California to your studio) and sipping on a strawberry smoothie (courtesy of Australia). I perused the entirety of your website. You certainly give yourselves a big pat on the back for how environmentally friendly and socially responsible you are. Page after page of praising your renewable farming practices, fair treatment of overseas employees, and giving back to your community. Which community are you giving back to exactly? The community that does the picking, the packing, the purchasing, the shipping, or the manufacturing?
Mayhaps you are the world's best company as your website claims—but you've made me a skeptic. How can I possibly eat the fruit of a company I can't trust? A bitter harvest indeed. There are other fish in sea, Dole. I'm sure Del Monte or Chiquita would be glad to have me. How do you like them apples?
I must say I am disappointed.
I used to feel nothing but confidence when eating your fruit products. Now, I am racked with doubt. My faith in you has been shaken to its apple core. What's happened to my adoration of you? Don't play dumb, you know what you did. No? Fine, let me explain.
While eating my Dole "Diced Apples in light syrup" I was reading the packaging. To my horror, I discovered the sad truth to your little fly-by-night operation. "APPLES FROM CHINA" caught my eye first. Then "Packed in Thailand." Followed by "Manufactured by Dole Packaged Foods, LLC. Westlake Village, CA."
I continued to read the product packaging and saw the green text box containing "For more than 100 years, Dole has been committed to our environment, our employees and the communities in which we operate. To learn how, please visit www.dole.com." And so I did.
Far from redeeming yourselves, you maddened me further. The first attempt to visit dole.com crashed my computer after trying to load your site's layers of php, javascript, actionscript, and who knows what else—perhaps a virus? Some spyware? The second time your website opened only to reveal a crazy-looking, irritating, talking woman holding a colander full of strawberries (no doubt picked from Abu Dhabi, shipped from Turkey, manufactured in southern California, then shipped by airmail to northern California to your studio) and sipping on a strawberry smoothie (courtesy of Australia). I perused the entirety of your website. You certainly give yourselves a big pat on the back for how environmentally friendly and socially responsible you are. Page after page of praising your renewable farming practices, fair treatment of overseas employees, and giving back to your community. Which community are you giving back to exactly? The community that does the picking, the packing, the purchasing, the shipping, or the manufacturing?
Mayhaps you are the world's best company as your website claims—but you've made me a skeptic. How can I possibly eat the fruit of a company I can't trust? A bitter harvest indeed. There are other fish in sea, Dole. I'm sure Del Monte or Chiquita would be glad to have me. How do you like them apples?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)