A president you can be proud of

The president's speech tonight was inspiring. It felt so much different from Bush's addresses. I feel like with Bush, all I heard was rhetoric and patriotic phrases, with no real meat. If Bush's speeches were a salad with a nice dressing, Obama's speech was a fucking turducken with bacon on the side.

I found out that I am getting a tax cut on April 1. I learned that people who have lost their jobs (my mother potentially included in that group) will get extended unemployment benefits and health care. I learned that we won't just throw this money to the wind and cover our eyes to where it ends up (like some bailouts I could mention). I found out that our new government is making a lending fund to provide the auto, education, and small business loans that have ground to a halt. I learned that banks will receive assistance, but will be held accountable for where that money goes. I learned that we would have health care reform by the end of the year, and that the government wants the highest proportion of college graduates in the world by 2020. And I learned that this education would be made affordable. I learned that our government wants to remove the troops from Iraq, and raise pay for soldiers.

You know what I would learn from Bush's speeches? I would learn that there wasn't really an economic crisis, that the Iraqis pose a threat to our national security, and that terrorists lurk around every corner. I would learn that the wealthy individuals and corporations in this country deserved more federal support than the middle and lower class. I would learn that I didn't need to know where my tax money went.

On a side note, what a totally awesome nod to his wife in the beginning of his speech. I'm pretty sure she mouthed "I love you" to him. Commence swooning.

Outside of political news, I've been out quite a bit lately and subsequently have been too exhausted/drunk/hungover to blog. But I do have stories. I went to a bar with a friend that's in the style of a speakeasy. You make reservations at 3 pm the day of, and when you get there, the door is located in a secret door in a phone booth inside of a hot dog shop. It was small and cozy, and had not even 30 seats. The prices were right, and you could chow down on hot dogs from the adjoining shop (avocado and sour cream hot dog!).

Then, last night I went out to help a friend celebrate a visiting friend's birthday. We were in a small dive bar that we frequent, and who should walk in but Elijah Wood! After much giggling and nervousness, I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder:

"Are you Elijah Wood?"
"Yes."
"My name is Phoebe, and it is a pleasure to meet you." (firm handshake)
"It's a pleasure to meet you too."

Then we asked him for a picture, and he happily obliged. Whadda guy. He even put his arm around me for the picture! SQUEAL!!! And I don't care what anyone says: Elijah Wood is ADORABLE. His eyes are so blue....he gives me a nerdgasm. I can't say as much for the entourage that was with him, though (that's right, hobbits apparently have entourages). They were all scowly and possessive. Pretty high and mighty for a group that's only hanging around the guy for status.

Then we left him alone, and proceeded to have a damn good time.
Below is the picture. Blog-safe, of course ;)

Where I live is cooler than where you live

Sometimes, as the work week trudges on and time drags endlessly, it seems that I live in a completely ordinary place that's no different than any other place I've lived. We get up, go to work, and then come home. We order McDonald's or Chinese take-out when we're too tired to cook. We know what shows are on which nights, and relish 30 Rock Thursdays and Biggest Loser Tuesdays (don't judge. I like to watch it while I eat a big bowl of ice cream, and contemplate the wonders of metabolism).

But then sometimes we leave our apartment, and then we have a night like last night. These nights help me remember why I love living here.

Coraline opened last night, so we made plans to see it downtown after work. I have to say, this was one of the best children's movies I have seen in a long time. The stop-motion animation was a refreshing change from the constant deluge of Pixar computer-animated flicks. The visuals were incredible. The creators constructed a beautiful and detailed world, right down to the cracks on the ceiling in Coraline's bedroom. Aside from the visuals, the movie featured a strong and spunky female heroine, who takes on an evil other-world to save her parents. In these times of damsel-in-distress Twilight crap, I'm happy to see a strong female character. Did I mention that we saw it in 3D? When we chose the theater I wasn't aware that it was showing in 3D, but it was a pleasant surprise. Instead of a hokey, overdone film that is made to showcase 3D technology, it had just a smattering of effects that emphasized the visuals. There wasn't anything ridiculous flying at you; instead, the 3D simply complemented the movie. Tasteful, if you will.

Then we left the movie just in time to hit up a bookstore before it closed. I chose The Glass Castle and The Perks of Being a Wallflower (I'm reading the latter six years too late, apparently, but what young adult doesn't need a healthy dose of teenage angst?).

And then! Then we started to go home. We walked to the 59th street subway, and headed to the lower level to catch the express. There, we saw a group of people at the far end of the platform, encircling two other people. We ventured closer, and then I realized what it was: Subway Theater! For those not in the know, there is a troop of actors in New York who regularly perform entire plays throughout the subway system. The catch is that you don't know when or where the play starts, and you must purchase a ticket to find out that information. I attempted to buy a ticket months ago, but all showings have been sold out for quite some time. So we were very lucky to walk in just a few acts into the beginning. The way it works is that the audience follows a host through the subway to see the next scenes, and the final destination is unknown. After we found the play, the host led us upstairs to the next scene, where waiting actors and live muscians were staging a ballroom dance. After that scene, the host led us to another platform, where she monologued while we waited for the next train. The actors actually move the props onto the train and perform the whole scene there. At one point, a train arrived with the props already set, if that gives you any indication as to the detail and planning of the event. The whole thing almost felt like a game; a scavenger hunt for the next scene. Also, the faces of the people who were on the trains were priceless. Everyone's just sitting in the car, late on a Friday, and then the doors open and 40 people flood in, a guy drags in a desk and a backdrop, and they perform the scene of a play. The doors open, and everyone leaves just as fast as they came in. New York is full of what-the-fuck moments, but this really takes the cake.

The other catch here is that you do not know where the play will finish. Luckily for us, it ended at our exact subway stop. What are the odds, I ask you?!

And today, I'm going with a friend to be an extra in some low-budget fashion reality TV show. This sure beats the weekends of my childhood, which we spent hanging out in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. I have a crush on this city.

Old white guy, who are you?!

Boyfriend and I both have off work today, and because my self-esteem concerning sports isn't crippling enough, Boyfriend suggested we bowl. Mostly there were just kids bowling (Liz Lemon moment: Oh god! Youths!), but for most of the first game we were tucked away in a lane by ourselves. Then, near the end of the first game, this older couple came to bowl in the lane beside us, with a young grandson. They had two other men with them, but eventually I realized that the two men weren't bowling. Instead, they were standing behind the family, watching. Wearing suits. Just...watching, with their arms folded in front of them.

"What are those suits doing? Are they...are they bodyguards?"

Cue me intensely scrutinizing the three faces of the bowling family. "Is the kid a child star? Does the grandmother look familiar? The grandfather is really hamming it up. Is he a comedian? A politician? Boyfriend, make a sudden move to see what the bodyguards do! THROW YOUR BALL AT THEM NOW I HAVE TO KNOW IF THESE PEOPLE ARE IMPORTANT."

So they bowled two games beside us and I still have no idea who the fuck these people are, to have bodyguards. Or maybe they aren't bodyguards, maybe they're just butlers that the family pays to follow them everywhere. Fuck if I know. The only info that I got is that the grandson was named Nathaniel and the grandfather may have been named Victor (that's right, I looked at their scoreboard. I MUST KNOW).

So if anyone happens to have some trivial knowledge of famous old white men who live in New York City, bowl in Harlem, and have a young grandson named Nathaniel, for the love of god tell me so I can tell people that I bowled beside someone famous.

Why I Love New York, Reason #1,233,434

Because sometimes, when you step on the subway after a 4 hour bus ride from your mom's house dragging 60 pounds of luggage with a new cold and hungry as fuck, a young man with a pleasant voice and an acoustic guitar is standing across from you singing a Beatles song. And that just makes it all okay.

The end of an era

...Sort of? I have not been without a job since I was 14 years old. I have been known to keep two jobs at once. And yet, after an unfortunate and traumatizing incident with graduate school (see comments section in "Epiphany!") , I have been unemployed for almost four months. There has been much mooching off of the Boyfriend, which has made my feminist self very unhappy.

Some good things came out of the Great Unemployment, like this blog. And a close and personal bond with my pet bunny (he's litter trained AND he responds to voice command. That's good bondin'). But now, thankfully, it's time to move off of my crumb-encrusted couch, turn off my Simpsons season 4-7 DVDs, and put my pants back on (if I can find them). Because today I accepted a job offer.

Because I want to keep my blog as anonymous as possible, and because I want to avoid getting Dooced (although that worked out well for her in the end, didn't it?), I probably won't reveal much about my working life. I guess I can say that I'm involved in academia, and that it involves Psychology, because I've already revealed that much in past entries. And it helps to know that information in order to understand my extreme nerdiness.

But I promise that even though eight hours of my day will soon be consumed by other activities, you can rest assured that I will still have an endless supply of things to write about ENTIRELY IN CAPS LOCK BECAUSE IT MAKES ME SO FUCKING MAD. Because those things never go away.

Plus, if I use this blog as an outlet, I have a lesser risk of alienating my future co-workers with insane ranting. Or maybe, if I get really lucky, my co-workers will be just as crazy as me, and we can rant together, like a bevy of homeless schizophrenic bag-ladies.

I don't start for a few weeks, but I'm celebrating today anyway. I'm going out, putting a new coat and hat (I want a cloche!) and boots on my already-bloated credit card, and then buying me a Max Brenner hot chocolate, because that shit is DE-FUCKING-LICIOUS. What now, Economy? What now?

Hm. Turns out I'm NOT an Ameican citizen.

Jon Stewart has brought up his qualms with the McCain Campaign's excessive pandering to "small-town" America a few times. I hadn't really noticed it until he mentioned it a few nights ago and again last night (it was the main theme of his show last night). This issue grinds my gears.

Until I was 17, I lived in a small town in rural Pennsylvania. The population in 2000 was 3,512 (smaller than Wasilla!). When I was 16, I worked for a summer picking strawberries on a farm. My high school was surrounded by farmer's fields. My best friend grew up on a farm (and naturally, being best friends with her, so did I). My memories of childhood include playing in woods, barns, creeks, and cornfields (damn it's easy getting lost in that shit). My best friend's father was a truck driver. My own mother worked a series of factory jobs. I have seen cows and goats get castrated (and I have seen it go horribly, horribly wrong). I have taken my father's pick-up truck and ramped it over road-bumps and done donuts in fields (don't tell my dad, for the love of god). I was once asked to go line-dancing for a date (I declined, for the record). The Olive Garden is "fancy." I've shot a gun many times (I took the Boyfriend to the local armory the first time he visited home. The fine fellows at the armory hailed me as the best girlfriend ever).

So yes, I am from "Real America." I am from the "hard-working, very patriotic, very pro-America area of this great nation" (Thank you, Ms. Palin. How kind).

But in those 17 years, despite lovely scenery, fond childhood memories, and a healthy knowledge of farming, I have seen things that have deeply disturbed me. I have seen ignorance, racial intolerance, and deep-seated sexism. I have seen abusive parents, neglected children, and low education levels. I've seen teen pregnancies (a LOT of teen pregnancies. I've also seen one barely-a-teen pregnancy). I've seen violence and hatred towards gays, atheists, blacks, and women. And I've seen all of this condoned, if not actively encouraged, by authority figures (be those figures religious leaders, parents, or school personnel).

So I got the hell out of dodge and went to a university in a moderately-sized city (pop over 300,000). There I learned that more people existed than white, small-town people. That those who are not white, straight, christian males of comfortable means face a TON of discrimination that is often subtle and easily-ignored by the majority's eye. I learned to respect other people and their struggles, and I learned to be skeptical of many things and trusting of very, very few.

And then I moved to New York (pop: over 8 million). I learned that Harlem is a very friendly place, and everyone says "hello" to you on the sidewalk (contrary to popular myth, this is not something that happened often in my hometown). I learned that almost everyone holds the door open for everyone else. I found a city where people from VERY different backgrounds co-exist. Where over 170 languages are spoken, and no one tells anyone that "you gotta speak American in America." Where accents might be hard to understand, but everyone makes the damn effort, because how many fucking languages do you speak? Where gays, atheists, blacks, hispanics, women, the transgendered, the poor, and the just-plain-eccentric are not open-season for bigots. Diversity is king, here, and we are happy that way.

I'm not saying that intolerance or discrimination doesn't exist in NY. It exists everywhere, as it is a product of our society and culture. A product partially fed and fattened by people like John McCain, Rush Limbaugh, George W., Sarah Palin, Ann Coulter, and the like.

But what I AM saying is that New York (and Chicago, and Boston, and San Francisco, and Dallas...) are REAL parts of America, too. And that we're often much nicer and more pleasant in terms of respecting our fellow human beings. And you can't disenfranchise us by saying that we're not. Many of us, like myself, came from what McCain is calling "real America" (which, by the way, I read as white, uneducated America), and we left because we didn't like that those places had no opportunities for us. We could not grow and thrive there either financially or intellectually, because those places are very limited in the experiences that they offer. We knew that there was more out there, and that the "more" is available where the population is larger and more diverse.

Places like my hometown are "real" America, too. But they aren't to be glorified. They aren't any better than New York. For the people who choose to live there, they offer something more than New York: families, jobs, lower costs of living, a different style of living. But they aren't some special piece of heaven, either. They have nasty sides, and if you've lived in a place like this, you know that the nasty parts are NOT few and far in between. Low levels of education and global awareness are not something to be celebrated. Ignorance isn't something to be celebrated. Associating an entire religion followed by 1-1.8 billion members with "terrorism" isn't something to be celebrated. Automatically associating brown people who have funny names with said religion and terrorism isn't something that's "folksy" or "charming", either.

McCain and Palin are insulting EVERYONE in America when they claim that people from small-towns are "real" and "patriotic" and "love their country the most." I'm real, too, and so is my vote. Patriotic shouldn't mean "unquestioning, die-hard fan of war and the current administration." To love one's country shouldn't mean "I have a yellow ribbon on the back of my truck." Loving one's country means questioning the government, questioning the status quo, and actually giving a shit about EVERYONE who lives here, including non-whites, immigrants, and people with diverse backgrounds. Loving one's country DOESN'T mean only loving the white parts, or the male parts, or the Christian parts, or the 4-person nuclear family parts.

To the people in small-town America: When McCain and Palin tell these things to you, they are diminishing and dismissing the problems that you face. They are ignoring your underfunded schools. They are dismissing the social ills that chill your community. They are underestimating the problems that you face in accessing good jobs and healthcare. They are making you into some sort of magical, mythical being: The strong farmer, the wise factory-worker. They are boxing you in and trying to woo you with vague rhetoric. They are trying to tell you that you love this country the most, so that you will be content and follow them wherever they go. But you have problems, don't you? And you shouldn't be content, should you?

There are 8 million people in New York, 3.8 million in Los Angeles, 3 million in Chicago, 1.2 million in Dallas, and 223,000 in New Orleans. Those people are real. Those votes are real. Attention must be paid.

YESSSSS CONNECTICUT, YESSSS!!!

Connecticut's Supreme Court ruled today that same-sex couples have the right to marry!!!

This news, in addition to a newly scheduled job interview, has really perked up my dwindling faith in humanity and America. In celebration, I am letting our pet bunny rabbit eat all the household cardboard that he wants, and I am having a peanut butter and grape jelly sammich.

Ok, so California, Massachusetts, and Connecticut have finally come to their senses and stopped legally discriminating against gays. Who's gonna step up to the plate next? New York, I'm looking at you...

Shady, shady business

The apartment that I occupy now is my fifth apartment in as many years (I'm a nomad!), so I have a lot of experience with landlords, both private and corporate. But I have NEVER had as shady of an exchange as the one that I had with my landlord two days ago:

Me: Hi, L, I was wondering if you could come and make *insert minor repair.*

LL: Sure, sure. Listen, while I have you on the phone, I've been meaning to tell you something. When the fire department comes, don't let them in.

Me: Oh?

LL: Yes, you see they are troublemakers. They make trouble for us. They want to remove the locks and empty the closets (side note: each apartment has a hallway closet containing a boiler. The apartments have no closet space save for these and a small linen closet in the bedrooms. This closet contains all of our shit, but the fire department deemed it a hazard because the shit blocks the boilers).

Me: Uh, well...

LL: So when they come, do not let them in. I will make an appointment for them to inspect. Then I will call and let you know, and you can clean the closet. Temporarily, no? (my landlord is Russian. Imagine all of this in a thick Russian accent). Then they go, and you will put it all back.

Me: *dumbfounded* I don't know...

LL: They are troublemakers. Ok, so tell your neighbors if you see them. Good bye!

what the fuck am I supposed to do now?

Heroin sandwich

If ever you should find yourself hungry and in the magical land of Manhattan, I highly recommend a teeny lil' shop in Greenwich Village called The Peanut Butter and Co. Sandwich Shop. We've eaten there twice now, and I swear it's been a multiple-orgasm in my mouth each time. Perhaps this is because I have never progressed past the eating habits of a six year old. No kidding, I hate vegetables and many fruits. I prefer that we purchase macaroni and cheese in the wheel or dinosaur shapes. And I usually have a box of fruit-by-the-foot hanging around. So naturally, I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I eat them almost every day, sometimes twice. This place sells regular PB&J, but a bunch of really delicious variants. In the two times that I have been there, I have sampled four sammiches (presented in order of least to most favorite, although I still liked the "least" a lot!):

4. The PB&J of the week: This week was Crunchy peanut butter and pumpkin butter. Simple and tasty, perfect for fall.

3. The Elvis: The Boyfriend tried this one. PB, banana, honey, and bacon (bacon optional, but of course we got it because we love all things pig). I thought it was pretty good, but he wasn't sold on whether the ingredients complimented each other. I would say the worst part was that it was REALLY sticky. I was concerned that my ability to breathe was impaired. I would say that if this combo sounds like something up your alley, it probably is. If you're not sold on it in theory, you probably won't like it that much in practice.

2. Dark chocolate dreams: Chocolate PB, cherry preserves, and shredded coconut. A friend tried this one. It was pretty fucking good. And I don't even usually like cherries.

1. Cinnamon raisin swirl sandwich: Cinnamon-raisin swirl PB with vanilla cream cheese and green apple slices. I can still taste it. I have the shakes from withdrawal from it. I nearly peed my pants at first bite. Basically, it's heroin between two slices of wheat bread.

The sandwiches run between 5 and 7 bucks, and they all come with a bag of their own, kettle-style chips and carrot slices. The carrot slices were perfect in that they were cut the only way in which I will eat carrots (I don't fuck with those weird baby carrots. They taste funny. And I'm not good at cutting whole carrots. And if you don't cut them right they take WAY too long to chew and my jaw gets tired, and then sometimes I inhale the little bits into my sinuses and it's really uncomfortable. You get the idea). So it's a pretty good deal. If you ask, they will cut off the crusts for you, too :)

Plus they have an extensive and tasty beverage menu, including my all-time favorite, Oregon chai tea! I got hooked on that stuff during a brief and painful waitressing stint at an Eat-N-Park.

For anyone in NYC, this place is down on Sullivan St, between W. 3rd and Bleecker. And, in addition to being a really cool place to check out for yourself, it's totally an awesome place to take a kid to eat. I'm sorry that I didn't have access to a restaurant like this during my McDonalds-dominated childhood.

Anyway, I gotta go. My Chef Boyardee is ready.

Debate: BAM!

We had a nice little debate party last night, since a dear friend was visiting from out of town. I thought about writing a long-winded analysis of it, and maybe through the miracle of DVR, I will go back and do that later. But for now let's just say that OF COURSE I think Obama was the master debater (insert immature giggling here). But, having a background in the social sciences, I gotta say that what I'm really interested in are social issues, so I suspect I will have more enthusiasm to blog My Big Opinion after debates addressing those things.

For now though, I'll be lurking in Times Square and in other touristy places today, because that is the price you pay when you move to New York and have many out-of-town friends. If anyone cares to share less-conventional entertainment ideas for guests, I'd LOVE to hear them.