Being Afraid of the Dark as a Child

I know I shouldn’t have been terrified of the dark as a child. I lived in an exceedingly safe and cloistered community. My parents were loving and topnotch caregivers. There were no catalyzing experiences of terror, no intruders, or spooking events witnessed. But until well into my tenth year, I was absolutely petrified of the dark.

I would sleep with the lights on, or at a minimum a night light until I was seven. Then, I would sleep with the hall light on and the door ajar for the next several years. I would take a flash light with me to the bathroom after hours, and seldom venture outside past sundown. I never could make it through a whole episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark, and never once finished a Goosebumps book. Would I tell any of my friends at the time? Hells no.

But looking back, it seems all so very logical. The unknown and unflinching fathom in front is oblivion staring down the young mind. It is the callow realization of limitations on apperception, the stripping back of the expanding world of youth; and the germ that grows with age to the gradual realization that life can cease. Philip Larkin wrote:

Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

As a child, it was the dark of night that was this first intimation of that flash of dread, the first confrontation with nothingness. Archibald MacLeish described this terror as being held stricken by the “…starless dark the poise, the hover,/ There with vast wings across the canceled skies,/ There in the sudden blackness that black pall/ Of nothing, nothing, nothing – nothing at all.”

Or maybe The Never Ending Story left a much greater impact on my nascent psyche than I am willing to admit.

– Jeff

Double Bagging My Groceries

I ask to have my groceries put in paper bag when I checkout. I then request that paper bag nestled into a plastic bag – I like the handles, and don’t want my food ever touching the sidewalk as result of ripped bag. (I barely can stomach the fact that my shoes have to come in contact with NYC sidewalks.) And at this everyone in the checkout, the cashier included, glares at me like I asked for my purchases to be stuffed in baby-carcasses, or said some negative word about Paul Krugman.

But I demur. Robert Oppenheimer was convinced that “It is perfectly obvious that the whole world is going to hell. The only possible chance that it might not is that we do not attempt to prevent it from doing so.” It seems to me that almost every problem that plaques us today is the result of the technological miracles of yesteryear.

So, I’m going to keep on getting paper-in-plastic at the checkout. If this damns the world to a global-warming induced hell, so be it. I cannot picture a scenario where anyone’s bagging preference is going help one damn thing in the in grand scheme of it all. The only consequences I see are the fermentation of upper-class guilt and petty animosity amongst neighbors. Anyhow, I’m going to listen to the man that invented the atomic bomb before the glowering yuppie pushing the designer stroller behind me in line.

If you really want to help the environment, don’t have kids. The carbon foot print of adding another person to a Western country is far and away the largest single carbon act you will ever commit.

My advice for every green enthusiast out there: have your tubes tied/ get a vasectomy. Of course, what is the point of saving the world if there is no one left to inherit it? Which gets back to Oppenheimer – the only chance that humanity has at a future is to stop trying to prevent the world from going to hell. As George Orwell reconmended, we all “should crawl into the whale.”

– Jeff

Feeling Sorry For the AIG Guys

I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for the executives at AIG. I admit to getting a great deal of Schadenfreude out of this recession. But enough is enough people. Death threats!? Are we becoming 18th century France? These are the same variety of people that America venerated for the last half century. Where was this populist outcry before the current troubles? The same people starting the lynch mobs today made Donald Trump a celebrity and the women of The Real Housewives of Orange County famous.

And in the greater scheme of things the amount the public is demanding back is such a trifling amount that to cavil about it makes about as much sense as complaining that someone removed a bucket of water from your swimming pool. The $165 million in bonuses is less than one-fifth of one-percent of the bailout money given to AIG so far. Extrapolate to the entire cost of this bailout, and the fraction becomes soridiculously small, that I will not even bother typing it. If you want a cause to rail against, it is that we have a capitalistic system that has allowed certain corporations to become to big to fail. But to come after a small groups of executives who played by the rules, signed contracts, and made a glut of money is absurd. Every journalist doing a hatchet-job on the AIG employees should be ashamed.

I guess what I am trying to say is this: don’t hate the player, hate the game.

– Jeff

Westboro Baptist Church

Let me start by saying that I agree with NOTHING that the Westboro Baptist Church stands for. I think their “protests” of funerals should be outlawed and that their children should be taken away from them. I am a left leaning agnostic that supports a litany of liberal social causes, from gay marriage to stem cell research. I believe that the members of the WBC are ill-informed, hate-filled troglodytes. But after watching them make fools of themselves on the campus of my alma mater last week, I could not help but think: what motives this roving pack of myopic provocateurs?

The best that I can come up with is that in their small and malnourished brains they must truly believe that the entire world has gone mad, and that they are the last bastion of Godliness and the only remaining bulwark left for salvation. Are they wrong? Yes. But in some twisted way, all the hate they spew, and all the unnecessary suffering they spread, is done in a terribly misguided attempt to help us; to save us from the eternal fires of Hell. They are professed to a strict code of non-violence, and seem to have no regard of public opinion. All of this is to say that despite the almost instantaneous urge they cull within me of wanting to punch each and every one of them in the face, I am also left with an uneasy sense of guarded respect. Maybe I am looking for humanity in the wrong place, but I cannot get over the horrible truth that these detestable bigots are motivated not out of malice, but rather out of some tough love sense of propriety. They think we are all going to eternal Hell, and are not willing to stand by and let that happen. They do not care that every thinking person in the world abhors them. They perceive a world on fire, and dare to put it out.

Or maybe I am jealous of anyone that can be that  impassioned about anything.

– Jeff

Author’s note: After reading through this post I realize that it is decidedly unfunny, and likely too glib. Sorry. I’ll get back to hackneyed social criticism on Wednesday.

No Longer Listening to Bands When They Become Popular

Dear Bands,

I know I supported you when you were obscure. And I told all my friends about your first EP. I even dragged people to that cramped backspace in Brooklyn to hear you play much too loudly for such a small room. All of this was fantastic. I was even OK when that Sundance Film used your song in their trailer. And I didn’t mind when Pitchfork called your first album promising, but derivative. I was still your biggest fan.

Things started to sour when that shoe company sampled your song in an ad. Don’t fret, I’d still play your music at parties – I’d just not put it on till people had a few. And yes, I was little peeved when you shorten your name to make it more marketable. That was part of your charm. Even when you had the nerve to have concert tickets that cost more than $15, I still listened. But what finally led to you being relocated to the nether regions of my iPod was that night I was in bar and heard your song play on the radio. Fuck, what were you thinking? The radio! How am I supposed to like anything on the radio? What’s next, a review of your new album in Billboard? This simply will not work.

So, I am terribly sorry. I know I shouldn’t stop listening to your music – in all honesty it still sounds the same to me, maybe even a little better – but I have an image to uphold.

Remember me fondly,

— Jeff

Being Hit on by College Boys

I notice them right away. Baby-faced. Shit-faced. Proudly displaying their fake IDs. That’s when I realize—oh no!—this is the West Village and I’ve accidentally stumbled into an NYU bar.

I know degrees are H-O-T-T, but what is it with emo college boys when they catch the scent of a female graduate? Is it the thrill of the chase? Some pseudo-Oedipal thing for older women? Or do they look to us for hope that one can be an English major and employed? Well, he’s cute enough (in an impish way) so I let him buy me a cheap beer and flirt until I realize he’s younger than my little brother and this is wrong on multiple levels (1. College boys get clingy quickly, and 2. I like older men).

But in the end, I’m a little flattered, because college chicks are easy. (Don’t ask me how I know.)

— Andrea

Judging Books by their Covers

All growing up I was told it is wrong to judge books by their covers; that true beauty was inner beauty. But this never struck me as sound advice. There is a lot of information on a book’s cover. With limited time, and far too many quality books to ever consider reading even a fraction of them, some general, wide-sweeping heuristics are needed to reduce the options from the start. Three quick cover-tests come to mind, but there are many one could perform:

1. What’s the author’s name? Is it Pratchett, Steel, the last name of b-list actor, et cetera…? If so, then you shouldn’t buy the book: it will be formulaic, predictable and cloyingly simple.

2. Who wrote the foreword? If you like this author, then the book will probably be readable.

3. Is it on the NY Times bestseller list? If it is, then avoid it—if that many people like it, then it is likely shitty.

And beyond books, judging almost anything by first outward appearances is generally solid advice for living in this increasingly busy and crowded world. Consider dating. Even the most idealistic souls acknowledge that physical beauty is required for romantic love. Well, the only way to guarantee both inner and outer beauty in your partners is to categorically ignore everyone who is ugly. We don’t have time to date unattractive people only to discover that they are miserable on the inside as well. This is not being shallow; this is being efficient. And don’t worry if you are fat: there will always be chubby chasers or a couple of Pacific islands that find gluttony and type-2 diabetes attractive, which is to say that there are innumerous definitions of beauty.

The only argument I can find against superficial judgments is the notion that there is one true love for each person, and that by categorically refusing to interact with those your instincts tell you are unattractive, you may miss out on your one unmatched chance at love.  Well, if that is the case, then I am already fucked.
Anyhow, if I ever ask you out, rest assured that I already find you attractive—it’s your intellect that you should be self-conscience about.

— Jeff

Weekdays

Everyone lives for the weekend. Right? That’s what I hear from my friends. I however, never know what the hell to do with myself Saturday and Sunday.

During the week I have a routine: wake up to the morning news, read during my commute (and eye-flirt at my train crushes), work, work, a drink with my friends, and get home in time for my favorite bad TV shows before starting all over again eight five hours later. The flow is natural and I am stable.

But come Friday, I’m expected to go out and “enjoy” myself. Hell, I could enjoy myself with Henry Miller and a bottle of wine, but don’t tell my friends that. When you live in New York you’re supposed to love the nightlife. Dine at that downtown bistro. Explore the new “it” club. Drink. Dance. Give my number to clean-shaven, dark-haired foreigners. It’s too much pressure. After my Saturday morning cappuccino ritual, I’d frankly rather be in the office than waiting in line for a Chelsea brunch. Weekends are expensive. There are no happy hours or lunch specials. Weekends go at retail price.

No, give me the weekday and I’ll be far happier.

Saturday, you disappointing tease, I’d much prefer your more dependable, less attractive sister Wednesday to you, betraying mistress.

— Andrea

Picking At Scabs

I know I shouldn’t pick at my scabs – I’ve been told this leads to scaring, infections, and maybe death – but I still cannot help myself. As soon as I can slip my nail under the frayed edge of hardened blood, the exercise begins.

And it is not just physical scabs – I enjoy picking at emotional ones as well. Let it bleed (and then bleed again). That is my motto. I’ve been told that this is indicative of my inability to heal. I want to smart, to be inspired by my errors and the visceral delights of picked at memories and pains. Whatever.

Earnest Hemingway once opined: “when you get the damned hurt, use it – don’t cheat with it.” This makes sense to me. (Of course, how can you pick at a scab the size of your face and shaped like crater from a shotgun blast?)

I have long been inspired to re-read letters of rejection after events are well and past. You said no, awesome. Let me drunk text you tonight so I can revisit that again. You sent me a long fuck-off email, bravo. Let me file that away so I can reduce this hurt through repetition. It is through that process of hard remembrance, the picking-bleeding-scabbing-repeat cycle, that finally results in scarring and purging of the pain; a growing hard and guarded where once one was weak; a cathartic conquering of the past.

Sure, I might be slightly malformed as a result, but chicks dig scars. I assume this includes emotional ones. If not, let me crystallize that miscalculation and store it away to pick at later…

— Jeff

Television

I have an addictive personality. This is why I do my damnedest to stay away from drugs—legal or otherwise. However, I am not immune to vice.

Watching television is not good for keeping up the image of a pseudo-creative city-dweller. But what do you expect from me? After a long day at work, a tiring commute, and time spent crunched on the subway or weaving through the evening pedestrians, I don’t have the energy to go out—let alone, turn my eyes to a book. They will not focus. But Top Chef is new tonight, so I’ll open the wine and imagine how my life would be if my kitchen were conducive to cooking. (Dear Bravo: Bring Spike back. ❤ Also: more vegetarian challenges.)

Now, given the choice between my four overstuffed bookcases and my 36”, I will trade that flat screen for the extra that just won’t fit in this little one-bedroom. It doesn’t do much good in storage. But no one is holding a gun to my head. As long as South Park and Planet Earth are aired, TV is a glorious beast.

And there’s nothing like an America’s Next Top Model marathon to cure your Sunday hangover. Those bitches work better than Advil.

— Andrea