Go Johnny go!

How GREAT was John Kerry tonight?  

The DNC convention is like my Superbowl.  I find myself wanting to make some popcorn and yell at the television screen as the moments pass.  Overall, Michelle has continued to rock my world.  Hillary was, predictably, self-focused while Bill was, pleasantly, magnanimous.  But the old Swift Boat veteran just went for it!  Senator Kerry was all of a sudden in his parlor (or some other fancy room) with Teresa, who still looks strangely drugged.  He was unabashed and thoroughly d.o.n.e with the inane anti-patriotic attacks hurled at the Democrats by Republicans that feel as if pride in one's country is something that they, as a party, can grant or take away from us at will.  

There is something about former Democratic presidential nominees; after toeing the line for seemingly endless campaign months, they emerge fed up with the bullshit and desiring to tell it like it is.  Gore went head first into climate crisis and emerged a hero and Nobel laureate.  Kerry, an early supporter for Sen. Obama's presidential bid, considerably loosened up and seems ready to counter attack any Republican removal of Obama's (or anyone else's) patriotism.  

I almost feel like Obama should wear a Swift boat pin under his lapel.  The symbol will be out of the predatory sight line of the press but close enough to his heart to remind him to go full throttle in a way that Kerry couldn't at the time. 

I heart NY!

Things I learned in New York this past weekend:

1. Sir Biden has been added to the Obama-licious ticket.  From an imperfect pool, the Democrats have selected the more perfect candidate.  I am thrilled for Biden's foreign policy experience to be added to the ticket although the combined beauty of the two couples up on stage together is a bit sickening.  He is brutally honest and will do his VP part of playing Bad Cop to Obama's Good; the Biden mouth is unpredictable- which I love.  I really don't think that his gaffes are going to compromise the ticket, they may distract the 24 hour news cycle for a while and I would not be surprised if Obama has him fall on a couple of swords to protect the greater image and campaign.  

2.  This blogger is employed!!  I received the call from my future job (policy analyst, clearly to be discussed more in the future) while lunching with an old friend on the Noisiest block of Manhattan.  Of the phrases that I heard, the salary is not going to put me on an episode of "The Fabulous Life of..." any time in the near future but the six (6!) people with whom I interviewed were fabulous themselves so perhaps I can redefine the meaning of fabulous life- most notably, I do not anticipate a yacht or my own staff to help me unwind.  

3.  The City that Never Sleeps welcomes artists of all denominations and specialties- this is not news.  Yet, I was exposed to a new form of public displays of art while sitting in Washington Square.  As I struggled with a late-week crossword I was pleasantly disturbed by a group of musicians, clad in 1940's garb, who started playing and singing Cole Porter songs ON TOP OF A BUS.  Bus top music has made a sudden surge in Art that I understand and appreciate (as opposed to installation pieces that resemble junk yards)

4.  It is possible for me to spend a weekend in New York without a trip to Tasti D Lite.  I am not excited about it, but I managed to miss any Tasti D's opportunity that was presented to me (albeit obliquely) in the 72 hours spent in the Big Apple.  I shall, therefore, make at least two trips to the not-quite-ice-cream phenomenon upon the occasion of my next trip. 

5.  Obviously.

Rail Travel

This blog session may be a multi-parter as I have much to say regarding my recent trip to the Big Apple and the various events that unfolded throughout.  I chose to travel Amtrak both ways because I hold the romantic notion of train riding as a graceful and passive view of America as it was meant to be seen.  Despite the chilly reception granted by friends, both close and distant, of my choice to spend more money and take the train over the much hailed Bolt Bus, I stood resolute in my decision (and as our President says, I am the decider).  Trains offer serenity that buses, with their stale air and ability to attract the strangest and most socially uncouth people to their services, simply cannot.  I have since refined such an assertion to include the clause, ' such views are contingent upon my ability occupy a full row of train seats and am seated near people who observe and respect the limited and hygienic behavior intrinsic to shared space. 

As I settled into my full row in Boston, I smiled- knowing that I had indeed made the correct choice on the railway splurge.  I attempted the day's crossword puzzle and gazed outside at the New England coastline as  visions of sugar plums danced in my head.  Then I got to Kingstown Rhode Island.  It was at that point that a family of four boarded the train; the parents of which promptly decided that seating their 4 year old twins, who had not eaten in 5 hours, next to me while they took their parental duty seriously from 2 rows behind.  I offered, kindly, to switch places with them and was met with looks of incredulity ("We just got rid of them, are you kidding") and a small brush off as the mother said to me, "no I can take care of them from back here."  WRONG.  After 10 minutes of tolerant behavior I rationalized that I was not a terrible person for ditching my surrogate parental duties, as the parents forgot to put me under contract, and strategically moved seats. 

Bad Idea.  

I settled next to a Hasidic couple who alternated between speaking loudly in Yiddish and snacking from their Mary Poppins-esque bag o' treats.  As the young woman chatted on her cell phone and twirled her wig around on her fingers, her presumed mate unabashedly took to staring at me per manner of a incredibly conservative, fully-clothed peep show.  I tried to focus my stare outside at the continuing scenery but found myself snapping my head back in a bizarre, unspoken game of gotcha with this young lad who most frequently would be caught staring at me, either twirling a side tendril or sucking pistachios out of their shells with ridiculous volume and discarding the remains in Poppins' bag.  

The two hour delay of my train ride home did not bode well for my overall justification of Amtrak support, yet I decided to approach the journey with an open mind, a full cell phone battery and an Early Edition of the Sunday Times to keep me occupied.  All was going well until the frustrated conductor screamed down the aisle, "the train is full.  Your bag can not take up a seat unless you've bought a seat for the bag."  I feigned deafness until a woman boldly approached me, and my defiant bag, and asked to sit next to me.  Her brother/husband/brother-in-law/no idea the relationship, was directly across the aisle and deemed Stamford, CT a great place to publicly trim his finger nails.  The bile was rising up in my throat in response when my seat buddy, who was greatly inhibiting my ability to unfold the Times enough to read the inner columns, reached into her purse grabbed a snack which resembled a fossilized cube of Macaroni and Cheese.  As the dad in front of me fruitlessly attempted to teach his 8-year-old how to count using Roman numerals, the gay couple behind me spoke loudly of their disdain for people who use their cell phones on trains just as I found a small piece of solace in a cell phone conversation with a friend.  The last, blissful minutes of the trip were spent in my own row, where I proceed to spread the Week in Review section across the entire seat- just because I could.  

West Siiiiiiiiiide

I've been actively resisting the recent media fascination with China; we all too often attempt to reduce the culture and country into simplistic, western generalizations.  We do not understand, therefore we judge.  But I haven't been able to shake this article out of my mind since I first read it.  We, indeed, are an individualistic culture; the very definition of capitalism demands such a mentality.  I do wonder how globalization will impact our nation's spirit and economy.  We may be at a disadvantage to societies with a more collectivist nature; if my work is for something greater than simply my own profit than perhaps my own selfish needs are less important than the end result.  

Personally, however, the more attention I've given to myself and my own self improvement has yielded more productivity and a greater spirit of generosity.  Therapy may seem indulgent in a collectivist society, yet I can attest to an hour a week of 'indulgent therapeutic time' produces ten fold my ability to relate on a professional and personal level.  Such results are antithetical to a person whom values the national reputation over her own 7-year-old need to feel like she is (good, pretty, talented) ENOUGH.** 

Perhaps as we dig our way deeper into the 21st century, we will find a way to negotiate our individualist impulses with the need for collectivist action.  Perhaps we will divide into greater extremes; political parties centered around more collectivism vs. those that demand individualism.  Perhaps we are headed for a world in which our individualism will have to be redefined through a powerful collectivist lens.  Perhaps I should talk to my therapist about this...

**The girl behind the curtain, so to speak, is extraordinarily cute by western standards.  

Supermarket Swept

Local Friend and I attempted to reenact an episode of Supermarket Sweep yesterday as we plowed our way through the wide aisles of the bulk food store that bears the unfortunate name of BJ's.  Historically, I'm not a fan of mega-stores that strain local businesses and make me believe that I, too, need 400 caplets of Immodium A-D 'just in case'; I was not excited during our drive home from the Cape when she received the call that she was responsible for picking up supplies for an afternoon BarBeQue at our Local Pool.  She and I divided and conquered to pick up no less than 160 frozen hamburgers, 14 bags of hamburger and/or hot dog rolls, 165 bottles of water and one package of brown-rice California rolls (my concession prize for such a large purchase of Grade B meat and nutrient-free meat nestlers).  The difficulty of placement for some of our BBQ necessities among the floor to ceiling displays of oversized wonderment were no match for us as we tossed our needs into our two carts with abandon.  

As we approached the counter, void of other customers and practically begging for us to check out, local friend noted, "This is really going our way!"   It was at this moment that Murphy's Law commenced and my hatred for BJ's was rekindled.  Our check-out attendant (is that the politically correct way of stating 'scanner'?) was among the slowest moving people I've ever encountered.  EVER.  If the tortoise could out run the fabled hare, this scanner would have been lapped by the tortoise, witnessed the birth of baby tortoises and been passed by the turtle, the evolutionary offspring of the tortoise.   Apparently the item count at a bulk store matters a lot to the overall success of the enterprise and we looked highly likely to throw our count off balance by somehow hiding a 64 ounce bottle of Pepto Bismol or something equally conspicuous in our open carts.  Said attendant glared at me in suspicion when I helped her in her 7th recount of our rolls, then continued in her mission to reveal us as thieves as she held the California rolls up in disgust as if it had jumped into our meat-erific cart by accident and was trying to pull a fast one on her.  She then called another attendant over to conduct a 34th recount of our items on the occasion of her's coming out inaccurate again.  Local friend attempted to end the ridiculous 1st grade counting session by saying, "I don't care if I've overpaid, I just need to get out of here," to no avail.  The counting continued and 35 minutes later Local Friend and I were released from our hell (after it was deemed that our items were accurate and fully paid for after all).  

We definitely would have not won super market sweep.  We would have been so slow that they would have had to show a real time update of our shameful finish during the following half hour of Shop 'til you Drop. 

Uncles and Republicans

A true New Englander, I got my hands nasty and sticky with Lobster yesterday and got into a fight with a southerner about the constructionist vs. activist interpretation of the 2nd amendment.  The only problem was that the 2nd amendment advocate and sub-Mason-Dixon Line resident happened to be the uncle of my friend who was lovely enough to invite me to enjoy the treasure of the sea at her childhood home.  Seems that wine makes me unable to withhold opinions about stupid, antiquated notions that are misinterpreted to support the "I do what I want" American attitude that is pervasive among those that are quick to call the defense of any other amendment (let's go ahead and say the 1st) as activist and disgraceful.

Prior to my spirited dinner engagement, my day would have read as just plain boring.  The sole salvation to the Day Which Will Not Be Remembered was this lovely little tidbit brought to my attention by my Uncle.  Instantly, I realized why Pres. Bush didn't consider 

boycotting the Olympics- even for a second.  I imagine that Laura was hovering close by, grin plastered on her face- like a good wifey should.  

Splash!

The summers of my youth were primarily spent in chlorine; the local swim team was the social, athletic and cultural epicenter of the world.  The negative attributes of Racer Back tan lines and greening hair paled in comparison from the joy obtained from the night of fun and games that marked the pinnacle of each summer, the Splash Party.  Such was a night to strut one's dolphin dive and bobbing ability in joke relays and attempt to score an underwater touchdown in 'Greased Watermelon Football' (a practice which has since been replaced with less life-threatening/pump clogging activities- I call them less fun activities).  

Last night, on the deck of the very same pool of my youth, marked the first 'Adult Splash Party'.  Apparently the parents wanted to get in on the fun, beer goggles style.  Prompted by an urgent message from my Local Friend, I made my way to this party to observe the adult enjoyment rituals of commenting on one's children, discussing the Red Sox and laughing at not-that-funny jokes.   It is within this framework that I met Little Man.  I've encountered many a Little Man in my life time- small and unattractive, with lots to complain about and a grudge towards all who outshine him; think George Constanza with Man Sandals (Mandals).  

In the few unfortunate moments I spent with Little Man, I was privvy for his disdain for Michael Phelps' wing span ("He's a freak" were Little Man's words of choice).  Additionally, Little Man still refuses to refer to French Fries as such and prefers "Freedom Fries".  I managed to edge my way out of the conversation by saying something brilliant, probably along the lines of, "Oh! Are those stuffed mushrooms??!"  

 

I then proceeded to rush home to catch Mr. Phelps in all his giant wingspanned glory take home another gold.  I bet HE doesn't wear Mandals.  

The Art of Chat

A free-spirited young woman from the Pacific North West made her way to the East Coast and has recently settled in to life as a NewYorker. The formative years of her early twenties were shared with me in an unfortunate area of the nation where humidity reigns supreme and all things known as truths by blue-staters are proven false. This place is known to most as Houston, to us it is H-town and mention of such tends to send shivers down our respective spines and knowing glances of terror across wine glasses.

Together we navigated the unfamiliar terrain of urban classrooms, negotiations between our perfectionist inclinations with adequate amounts of sleep, Bad Men and the Bad Ways we viewed ourselves as a result of them, and the growing pains of early adulthood. Our shared experiences have bound us eternally; a tie that is reinforced by similar views on the world and our roles therein, a passion for dancing and a deep understanding of our respective pasts and their influence on our present. The only problem with our friendship is we can never, EVER find a time to talk. The 'chat' has become the new holy grail of women in their late 20s who are not lucky enough to live in the same city.

This issue tends to be endemic to ambitious females that are still trying to navigate their career path- the planning of countless times to connect, accompanied by the inability to be present on both ends of the phone. We long to connect and recount our day to day activities but find ourselves summarizing our past 4 months of Job, Life and Family into emails and g-chats. The downfall of being of the generation of women who are finally able to carve our own path without the pressure of early childbearing is that we are not privileged with the natural female community that forms around such life accomplishments. The fabulous females with whom my life has been blessed are each well accomplished in their own right; self-defined and self-sufficient. Yet our personal selves are not as nourished by each other due to the busy-ness necessary to maintain such a lifestyle as a socially committed individual. It is the connections that we most desire that are the most difficult to maintain as job and professional circle time take precedence. Perhaps as we enter into our 30s and beyond we will find ourselves more connected; maybe we can figure out a way to attain the holy grail without losing ourselves.

Different Wolf, same sheep's clothes

We've got a new Wolfie in the political stratosphere.  In the place of a lying neoconservative, with hawkish tendencies we have a Monday morning quarterbacking liberal with a knack for believing and disseminating half truths.  Howard Wolfson, communications director for HRC's presidential bid, claims that his candidate would have won Iowa had Edwards, and all his glorious hair, revealed his scandalous tete-a-tete with a party-girl-videographer prior to the caucus.  Wolfson's logic is as follows:

Edwards reveals scandal--> Sir Beautiful Hair's voters, disgusted by his lack of 'family values, ALL vote for HRC--> HRC WINS Iowa--> Obama loses steam and doesn't even make it to Super Tuesday--> Election over by Super Tuesday

In other words, HRC's original plan of a February 5 primary finish line would have held true if only the biased press had broken the Edwards' affair in time.  But they didn't.  And Obama won.  Thus, one may wonder why new Wolfie is acting like old Wolfie- picking unnecessary fights and playing psychological war games instead of engaging in reality. 

U! S! A!

W is allowed to exit his stuffed shirt existence as Leader of Free World this week and venture into the much more comfortable terrain of Frat Boy cheering for American dominance in the world...I mean, Olympics.

Our Pres has a S written on his chest in red and blue and is just waiting to be flanked by Cheney (U) and Rove (A) to rip off their oxford shirts and shake it like good American fans. As our esteemed leader took the gangster lean while chatting with Bob Costas in the NBC Beijing studios it was evident that he desperately wished that he could don a backwards baseball cap, pop his collar and ditch his tie- he is most comfortable being a dude, rather than a debutant. It was, after all, the dude factor that enabled W to connect with so many Americans who seemed desperate 4 and 8 years ago to have a beer with the president rather than electing someone who would be a terrible Friday Night Date but may have a better grip on global politics and grammar. We all know the result of our 8-year national bar crawl; we've been through the belligerent phase of believing we can take out anyone and everyone who challenges our dart-throwing dominance. Unprompted, we've gotten into fights and had to be pulled back by our friends and foes with better judgements who happen to be a bit less hubrisly intoxicated. Our ID has been questioned by some of the finer establishments who doubt our ability to control our actions.

Finally, we are sobering up and wondering what exactly we might have said or done that we don't quite remember but may get us in trouble well into the future. Having learned from our juvenile mistakes, we are repentant and want to moderate- but don't know how to negotiate such a stark behavior change with our drinking buddies or ourselves.

W, is a bit behind in the game- he still surrounds himself with those who support his reckless and privileged frat boy ways. He huddles with men's basketball Team USA, throws up the victory sign for Michael Phelps and talks sports with the American media but won't take care of his own nation's huddled masses, acknowledge that victory in Iraq is not as simple or clear cut as that in the swimming pool or speak candidly with us about the fledgling economy.

Our heads pound in a state of crippling hangover and we hope that the next president will bring the necessary hydration and acetaminophen to get out of the bar and back to our day jobs that aren't as fun but at least they pay the bills.

Suburbia

It's been near 2 full months that I've resided in suburbia, yet I haven't yet begun to wrap my head around that which Suburban Dwellers (by choice rather than by financial straights) prioritize.  From what I can observe the top suburban must haves are:

4.  Designer Rain wear.  Simple, hard-ware store purchased umbrellas and dealing with wet sneakers until safely inside one's two-story, picket fenced home is a thing of the past.  Women and men alike open their Coach Umbrellas and struggle to pull their Burberry wellies over their well-exercised calves.  Those that can not afford to buy the stylish trench coats that may actually be flattering enough to justify the exorbitant splurge choose, instead, to settle for the $150 rain accessories.  Nothing says, "I am SO ready for this nasty weather," like a pair of brown plaid rain boots that make even the sveltest of humans to walk like a platypus.  Inflation may make fresh fruit a financial pipe-dream and toilet paper a luxury...but an ugly umbrella is forever.

3.  High Gas Bills.  The gas tank is the new metaphorical fish- My gas bill was THIS big is the new phrase du jour.  Suburbanites trade fill-up price stories as if they were battle scars.  Each wincing at the escalating exasperation of the cost of gas and the unfathomability of existing without such a beastly vehicle.  Very few of these people, it should be noted, feel that they are restricted to the lines in parking lots.  The hugeness of their cars justifies the complete inability to park correctly.  

2.  Pink and Green.  Lily Pulitzer is a disease that has infected much of the female population of upper-middle class suburbia.  Epidemic in proportion, Lily has somehow made cotton-candy pink and lime green stylish.   Her methods must ring of those of Scientology- convincing those on the Inside (wearing ridiculous clothes) that they are in fact better than those that are on the Outside (laughing at you wearing those ridiculous clothes).  I can only imagine the glare that emanates from these people's closets, neutral colors are highly discouraged and non-capri pants are SO blase.  

1.  Identity Theft.  Ask many a suburbanite, "how are you?" They will respond with, "Great, Bobby just started sailing lessons and Susie and learning how to ride without training wheels.  From the amount I drive around you would think I was a cabbie..."  It's as if being yourself is not enough- being Super Parent is far more 'worthy' an existence.  Their huge SUVs (poorly parked, obviously) are SuperParenthood accessories and non-kid focused conversations are redirected immediately back.   Upon high school graduation of their last child, the adults resume their own existance- unless of course his/her precious one happens to go to a Well Known University, then it is obligatory for said parent to drop in references to the school at the most awkward of moments.