We haven't done it in soooo long, it's starting to feel like this Enchilada has lost her kick, but we can always count on someone to get a rise out of us, so here goes:
Yesterday, attending a performance of Other Desert Cities on Broadway, the guy stuffing the seat in front of me is wearing a white baseball cap. Every time he moves his head, instead of the stage, I see a huge blob of visor, flap or however you call it. This has happened before. Usually people take off their headgear as the lights go down, and in case they don't, one only has to ask politely and people will comply.
I had a feeling that with this individual it wasn't gonna be so easy. Who wears a white baseball cap to a Broadway play at 8 pm at night? In the sweetest voice I could muster, I said:
ME:
Sorry to disturb you, but will you please remove your cap when the play begins?
HUMAN STUFFED DERMA:
NO! I WILL NOT REMOVE MY CAP!
ME:
It is disturbing my view.
HSD:
You will see just fine.
ME:
No I won't.
HSD:
I DON'T FEEL COMFORTABLE TAKING OFF MY CAP!
ME:
Even in the dark?
I considered calling the usher, but there were plenty of empty seats around me so I switched seats and I let it go, not before saying:
"I want you to know that this is extremely rude and in bad taste. I asked you politely".
Then I muttered "stupid people with caps" and "asshole" sotto voce, for dramatic flourish.
Now, if the guy had said, "I have a protuberance the size of Nairobi that will distract you far more than the lousy cap", or "you really don't want to have my naked pate with random hairs in front of you, lady, it's a horror show", or seriously, "I have a medical condition and I can't do that for you", I would have been empathetic.
But where the hell do neurotic New Yorkers get off with this sense of entitled self-pity? ME ME ME! I am special, so screw anybody else. Whatever happened to manners? Back in the day, you had to remove your hat any time you went inside. Those were the rules. Hey, back in the day people would go to Broadway in evening attire, not jeans and sneakers. I wished I could channel Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey and give this whiner a piece of my mind. I hate that show (oh yes I do) but Maggie Smith is God's gift to mankind. She is immortal.
Next:
I am addicted to Farmland Dairies Skim Plus Chocolate Milk with Omega-3. I have a bowl (or two) of that with Cheerios every night and I credit this diet with losing 7-8 pounds since the Summer. Roll your eyes as much as you want. The milk is creamy, tastes strongly of chocolate, and last time I had a cholesterol screening, my good cholesterol went up. Heaven. Now, this baby does not come cheap: almost six bucks for a half gallon. I guzzle it like a Hummer guzzles gas. Alas, the last two times I bought it, it had changed. Gone was the creaminess, gone was the chocolatey flavor, now it was plain mediocre milk with a faint taste of chocolate. The price, however, remains the same, if it has not gone up. In the Morton Williams in front of my house, prices rise by the hour. Anyway, you bet I gave them a call. And spoke at length about my disgruntlement to the answering machine. Very politely, but not, as devastatingly as Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey.
Showing posts with label Kvetch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kvetch. Show all posts
Thursday, March 01, 2012
Monday, September 19, 2011
My Response To Reed Hastings of Netflix
He wrote me a letter, so I wrote him back:
Sincerely,
The Grande Enchilada.
Hi Reed!
I
was one of those customers who did not care about the increase. I
thought it was understandable. Having both streaming and delivery for
the same price was too good to be true.
You
may have made mistakes in the way you communicated the increase to your
consumers, but that is nothing compared to the branding and marketing
mistake you are making now.
I'm sure you will find that your letter, far from appeasing your customer base, is going to have the opposite effect.
The
name Netflix is such a powerful, unique brand that it has become a
verb. But besides misadventures in marketing, which customers care
absolutely nothing for, (all we want is quality, convenience and value),
why would your customers who would
like to enjoy both services want have to deal with two separate sites,
under two different names? The refusal to integrate both services under
the Netflix brand is incomprehensible to us run of the mill humans; only
marketing mutants can understand such absurd decisions. Why would we
want to have two separate charges in our monthly credit card bill? As
if people don't have enough saturation on the internet already. Why not
leave both under the Netflix name and figure out a way to bill customers
without inconveniencing us? Nobody needs yet another brand in this
world.
I was one of the first users of
Netflix and I evangelized about it to anyone who would listen. It pains
me to deal with these issues after so many years of being a very happy
customer.
Sincerely,
The Grande Enchilada.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Diminished Capacity
Mon amours:
I'm very concerned I'm losing the capacity for ranting. I don't care about anything any more. I cannot expend the energy required to be worked up into a frenzy simply because there are way too many instances that beg it of me. It's exhausting.
For instance, what the hell is going on with the vote on gay marriage in this state? What are we waiting for? Just man up and vote already. And if they vote no (very likely) I think Mayor Bloomberg should imperially declare that same sex marriage is legal in NYC, like Mayor Ebrard did in Mexico City. Let's get all those millions of dollars from marriageable gays into our economy.
Or, who does Cardinal Dolan think he is? His opinion about this issue, as the opinion of all clergy of any faith, for or against, is immaterial. There is separation of church and state, and this is a civil rights and civil law issue, not a religious issue. It's a free country and he can express his opinion, but its worth bubkes. In fact, it is worth less than that, because anything coming from the pedophile-abetting criminal institution he represents is rather rich.
By the same token, as I'm watching him deliver his tirade on TV, they cut to some protesters for and against in Albany. One of the protesters (for, I assume) is a woman rabbi who is wearing a yarmulke, peyes (the side curls) and a talit (prayer shawl). What fresh hell is this? If she could, she would have been wearing a beard too? You want to be a woman rabbi, fine. Judaism, for all its wonders, is a highly patriarchal, male-oriented religion. It is 5000 years old and not with the times in terms of women's equality, as all religions are, curiously enough. Judaism has been tweaked by liberal Americans so it can be more inclusive and so that women can be rabbis and cantors and mohels (circumcisers). But what's with the accoutrements? You just reinterpret stuff as you see fit? This is my paradox. I hate religion, but the old fashioned one seems to me more authentic than the newfangled one.
Or the article about micheladas in NY Magazine. With a recipe including a cashew salsa. Next we're going to hear about truffled michelada with a parmesan croute. Please stop getting on my nerve. Here's the simply marvelous original, for those of you who do not need useless adornments.
I wiped out on my bike on Friday. I have noticed that there have been a couple of times in my life where I have put myself in danger precisely by trying to be cautious. Case in point: years ago, Mr. Ex-Enchilada and I (me?) were out and about on a Saturday night in Mexico City. We had a drink at a bar and then about 11 pm we wanted tacos, naturally. Mr. Ex Enchilada suggested we walk to the taquería, about 12 blocks. I, fearing for our safety, insisted upon taking a cab. That's when we were abducted.
(By the way, I finally ate at famous Taquería El Paso on E 97 st. Not as good as the hype claims).
Same with the bike. The roads were slick so I decided to get on a stretch of desolate curb for safety. That's when I wiped out. I was wearing a helmet. In fact, the only part of my body that did not scrape the asphalt was my head (though my cheek did swipe the nasty pavement). So does it pay to be reckless? Or am I just a klutz?
I'm very concerned I'm losing the capacity for ranting. I don't care about anything any more. I cannot expend the energy required to be worked up into a frenzy simply because there are way too many instances that beg it of me. It's exhausting.
For instance, what the hell is going on with the vote on gay marriage in this state? What are we waiting for? Just man up and vote already. And if they vote no (very likely) I think Mayor Bloomberg should imperially declare that same sex marriage is legal in NYC, like Mayor Ebrard did in Mexico City. Let's get all those millions of dollars from marriageable gays into our economy.
Or, who does Cardinal Dolan think he is? His opinion about this issue, as the opinion of all clergy of any faith, for or against, is immaterial. There is separation of church and state, and this is a civil rights and civil law issue, not a religious issue. It's a free country and he can express his opinion, but its worth bubkes. In fact, it is worth less than that, because anything coming from the pedophile-abetting criminal institution he represents is rather rich.
By the same token, as I'm watching him deliver his tirade on TV, they cut to some protesters for and against in Albany. One of the protesters (for, I assume) is a woman rabbi who is wearing a yarmulke, peyes (the side curls) and a talit (prayer shawl). What fresh hell is this? If she could, she would have been wearing a beard too? You want to be a woman rabbi, fine. Judaism, for all its wonders, is a highly patriarchal, male-oriented religion. It is 5000 years old and not with the times in terms of women's equality, as all religions are, curiously enough. Judaism has been tweaked by liberal Americans so it can be more inclusive and so that women can be rabbis and cantors and mohels (circumcisers). But what's with the accoutrements? You just reinterpret stuff as you see fit? This is my paradox. I hate religion, but the old fashioned one seems to me more authentic than the newfangled one.
Or the article about micheladas in NY Magazine. With a recipe including a cashew salsa. Next we're going to hear about truffled michelada with a parmesan croute. Please stop getting on my nerve. Here's the simply marvelous original, for those of you who do not need useless adornments.
I wiped out on my bike on Friday. I have noticed that there have been a couple of times in my life where I have put myself in danger precisely by trying to be cautious. Case in point: years ago, Mr. Ex-Enchilada and I (me?) were out and about on a Saturday night in Mexico City. We had a drink at a bar and then about 11 pm we wanted tacos, naturally. Mr. Ex Enchilada suggested we walk to the taquería, about 12 blocks. I, fearing for our safety, insisted upon taking a cab. That's when we were abducted.
(By the way, I finally ate at famous Taquería El Paso on E 97 st. Not as good as the hype claims).
Same with the bike. The roads were slick so I decided to get on a stretch of desolate curb for safety. That's when I wiped out. I was wearing a helmet. In fact, the only part of my body that did not scrape the asphalt was my head (though my cheek did swipe the nasty pavement). So does it pay to be reckless? Or am I just a klutz?
Monday, November 22, 2010
Cranky News Digest
Blood pressure rising as a result of reading the news:
Body scan or aggressive and insensitive pat down? Well, it's been almost ten years since 911 and we're still idiots when it comes to airport security. Given a choice, I much prefer the Israeli trained agent that looks at you in the eye and asks smart questions. I understand the volume of fliers in this country makes this wish of mine utopian, but the TSA needs to admit they are a disaster. Traveling to and from Israel this summer, no one lay a hand or a scanner on me. I didn't have to take my shoes off. I just had to answer a bunch of questions in a process that was actually faster and less annoying than any gauntlet I've ever went through stateside. Many of the questions were personal. I wonder if Americans, with their concern for privacy, and their sensitivity for political correctness, are willing to subject themselves to this kind of human intrusion. Done correctly, absolutely everyone gets profiled, not just the usual brown and turbaned suspects. I can tell you, it is much more polite, much less humiliating and SAFER than the moronic inferno (to borrow from Martin Amis) we've had for years.
Drivers are incensed about the proliferation of bike lanes in Manhattan.
Guess what? I'm incensed about drivers. They pollute, make noise and clog the city with traffic. This city needs to have more space for bikes and less for cars. And people who drive should grin and bear it. I've been saying this for years. Americans need to wean themselves off their love for the automobile. Manhattan should be a mostly car-free zone (except for small taxis, public transport and delivery trucks). What happens in Brooklyn I don't care, because with all due respect to my adorable friends from that borough, I don't give a shit. But Manhattan should be like Amsterdam or Berlin, where drivers don't kvetch about bikes invading their space. The nerve.
Some Noo Yawkers go to specialists to get rid of their accents. Noooo! Why? This is such a pity. I love accents. For instance, I learned today that the twang of our beloved Mayor Bloomberg is actually Bostonian. I always thought he spoke kinda funny. We don't all want to sound bland and indistinguishable from podunk, do we? In my building there are still several people who have New York accents so rich, I feel like I'm in a movie. I don't drink coffee, but if I did, I'd drink cawfee.
Body scan or aggressive and insensitive pat down? Well, it's been almost ten years since 911 and we're still idiots when it comes to airport security. Given a choice, I much prefer the Israeli trained agent that looks at you in the eye and asks smart questions. I understand the volume of fliers in this country makes this wish of mine utopian, but the TSA needs to admit they are a disaster. Traveling to and from Israel this summer, no one lay a hand or a scanner on me. I didn't have to take my shoes off. I just had to answer a bunch of questions in a process that was actually faster and less annoying than any gauntlet I've ever went through stateside. Many of the questions were personal. I wonder if Americans, with their concern for privacy, and their sensitivity for political correctness, are willing to subject themselves to this kind of human intrusion. Done correctly, absolutely everyone gets profiled, not just the usual brown and turbaned suspects. I can tell you, it is much more polite, much less humiliating and SAFER than the moronic inferno (to borrow from Martin Amis) we've had for years.
Mr. Hoffman said the administration should move away from adding more layers of security for every passenger in response to every new plot and consider an Israeli-style approach to identify passengers who pose a particular risk, based on advance intelligence, questioning travelers and watching their behavior.What the fuck has taken them so long?
“We’ve had nine years of just grafting security measures one on another,” Mr. Hoffman said. “Maybe it’s time to step back, take a hard look and look for a new approach.”
Drivers are incensed about the proliferation of bike lanes in Manhattan.
Guess what? I'm incensed about drivers. They pollute, make noise and clog the city with traffic. This city needs to have more space for bikes and less for cars. And people who drive should grin and bear it. I've been saying this for years. Americans need to wean themselves off their love for the automobile. Manhattan should be a mostly car-free zone (except for small taxis, public transport and delivery trucks). What happens in Brooklyn I don't care, because with all due respect to my adorable friends from that borough, I don't give a shit. But Manhattan should be like Amsterdam or Berlin, where drivers don't kvetch about bikes invading their space. The nerve.
Some Noo Yawkers go to specialists to get rid of their accents. Noooo! Why? This is such a pity. I love accents. For instance, I learned today that the twang of our beloved Mayor Bloomberg is actually Bostonian. I always thought he spoke kinda funny. We don't all want to sound bland and indistinguishable from podunk, do we? In my building there are still several people who have New York accents so rich, I feel like I'm in a movie. I don't drink coffee, but if I did, I'd drink cawfee.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Used Car Salesmen
The two worst things about a broken foot are 1. that I can't do whatever the hell I please and 2. doctors and our health care system.
I broke the foot on a Thursday. Because of my deep and longstanding indoctrination into insurance panic, I forgot that I'm paying $400 a month (plus $50 copays and all kinds of other extras) to have the privilege not to need a referral from my primary care doctor to see a specialist. So instead of going directly to an orthopedist, I went to her. She looked at it and said: you need an orthopedist. Well, good luck trying to find a practicing bone doctor on a Friday. Either they are playing golf or they are operating on patients. Next available appointment: 10 days from then.
I didn't want to spend the weekend either at the ER or with the foot getting worse by the minute, so I went to a bone doctor that my insurance does not cover. I figured, I work my ass off so that I can have money for shit like this. I'm not going to start nickel and diming my own health.
Fine. He tells me it should be fine in 2 or 3 months, sells me one single brace boot for the price of a fancy pair of shoes and tells me he wants to see me next week. No dude, next week I'm seeing a doctor that my insurance covers, thank you very much.
So second appointment, third round of x-rays, my insurance covered doctor walks into the room and he starts trying to sell me pretty hard on the idea of surgery. He thinks I'm Margot Fonteyn and my career as a prima ballerina will be over. I quickly disabuse him of the notion. I like the stupid ballet but if you tell me I can't do it, I'll do something else.
So then he changes his tune and says what he should have said at the beginning. This may or may not heal correctly. You can wait to find out or I can cut you open and fix you tomorrow. Your choice. I find it appalling that the main concern seems to be to ratchet up the invoice, rather than the best and most sensible course of action.
I had been to him once before and he solved a shoulder problem quickly and efficiently, so I don't think he is a bad doctor. But my feeling is that the system encourages these specialists to behave like merchants in a Turkish bazaar.
Worse than this is that every time you go to a doctor's appointment or diagnostic place, you are treated like a potential criminal, not like a patient. Where's your insurance card, do you still live where you live, who sent you here?
It's not very nice.
I broke the foot on a Thursday. Because of my deep and longstanding indoctrination into insurance panic, I forgot that I'm paying $400 a month (plus $50 copays and all kinds of other extras) to have the privilege not to need a referral from my primary care doctor to see a specialist. So instead of going directly to an orthopedist, I went to her. She looked at it and said: you need an orthopedist. Well, good luck trying to find a practicing bone doctor on a Friday. Either they are playing golf or they are operating on patients. Next available appointment: 10 days from then.
I didn't want to spend the weekend either at the ER or with the foot getting worse by the minute, so I went to a bone doctor that my insurance does not cover. I figured, I work my ass off so that I can have money for shit like this. I'm not going to start nickel and diming my own health.
Fine. He tells me it should be fine in 2 or 3 months, sells me one single brace boot for the price of a fancy pair of shoes and tells me he wants to see me next week. No dude, next week I'm seeing a doctor that my insurance covers, thank you very much.
So second appointment, third round of x-rays, my insurance covered doctor walks into the room and he starts trying to sell me pretty hard on the idea of surgery. He thinks I'm Margot Fonteyn and my career as a prima ballerina will be over. I quickly disabuse him of the notion. I like the stupid ballet but if you tell me I can't do it, I'll do something else.
So then he changes his tune and says what he should have said at the beginning. This may or may not heal correctly. You can wait to find out or I can cut you open and fix you tomorrow. Your choice. I find it appalling that the main concern seems to be to ratchet up the invoice, rather than the best and most sensible course of action.
I had been to him once before and he solved a shoulder problem quickly and efficiently, so I don't think he is a bad doctor. But my feeling is that the system encourages these specialists to behave like merchants in a Turkish bazaar.
Worse than this is that every time you go to a doctor's appointment or diagnostic place, you are treated like a potential criminal, not like a patient. Where's your insurance card, do you still live where you live, who sent you here?
It's not very nice.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
I'm Suing Susan Miller
She goes on and on about Mercury retrograde this month and no mention whatsoever that I was going to break my foot today, dancing a stupid Tarantella at my ballet class. I've always hated that stupid Tarantella. George Balanchine, my ass. Or I should say, my foot. It's not like I was doing a triple axle combination pirouette a la Nureyev. I was just doing these stupid little jumps.
It hurts like a mother, mind you. It's sapphire blue. And swollen like a blue corn tamale. Can't walk too well.
I saw the X-rays (I must say, my bones are gorgeous. Very dainty.) I can clearly see the fifth metatarsal bone is broken, snapped like one of those Italian grisini bread sticks.
I've heard reports of other sundry accidents today: someone falling down the stairs, someone falling on the street. And as I write this, the light bulb of my desk lamp just gave out. Looks like there must be an eclipse on Planet Pish, or a conjunction of the two most evil planets (one of them has got to be Uranus). As you can see, this foot breakage has also rendered me incredibly puerile.
I don't care. I've decided I'm gonna spoil myself rotten (which in my case means unlimited guzzling of comfort food). But then, who knows when I will be able to exercise again.
I'm no Susan Miller, but I can tell you exactly what my future looks like: It looks like I'm gonna become the size of Moby Dick just in time for the Summer.
So much for ballet!
It hurts like a mother, mind you. It's sapphire blue. And swollen like a blue corn tamale. Can't walk too well.
I saw the X-rays (I must say, my bones are gorgeous. Very dainty.) I can clearly see the fifth metatarsal bone is broken, snapped like one of those Italian grisini bread sticks.
I've heard reports of other sundry accidents today: someone falling down the stairs, someone falling on the street. And as I write this, the light bulb of my desk lamp just gave out. Looks like there must be an eclipse on Planet Pish, or a conjunction of the two most evil planets (one of them has got to be Uranus). As you can see, this foot breakage has also rendered me incredibly puerile.
I don't care. I've decided I'm gonna spoil myself rotten (which in my case means unlimited guzzling of comfort food). But then, who knows when I will be able to exercise again.
I'm no Susan Miller, but I can tell you exactly what my future looks like: It looks like I'm gonna become the size of Moby Dick just in time for the Summer.
So much for ballet!
Friday, March 12, 2010
Alert the media!
I can't find anything to kvetch or rant about! What is happening to me? Heeeeelp!
I could comment on Rush Limbaugh's broken promise to get the hell out of here and go pester the poor Costa Ricans, but not even that is getting my goat nowadays. These pompous hypocritical, drug addled, fat assed balloons of fetid, putrefying right wing air are so stupid it's almost pointless to make fun of them.
What happened to our healthcare bill? I don't understand the dynamics so I've stopped caring. Where are we on this? Anybody?
By the way, listen to this. I made an appointment to the eye doctor because I think I need new glasses. Can't see, can't hear, quickly becoming an old fartette. Hence, appointment.
They tell me that if I want a new prescription I have to pay $40 extra, because my insurance (which charges a $50 copay) doesn't cover a prescription. What fresh hell, to quote Dorothy Parker, is this? It's like going to the ice cream parlor and they can sell you the cone or the cup or the sprinkles, but not the ice cream.
This country has become an insane asylum. Nothing makes any sense any more. Which is why I am going to Chinatown, to my beloved Mott St. Optical, to get my prescription. This is where I got my bifocals (see old fartette, above), and the saleswoman told me: "You are going to love them. You are going to see everything!".
Perhaps you can enlighten me: why do rich people have reality shows on TV? A world in which the rich behave with even more abject vulgarity than the poor thoroughly depresses me. There are no standards anymore.
Same goes for fucking Lady Gaga. I saw her video with Beyonce (she does not depress me, somehow). Call me an old fartette, but no I didn't like the video. I like the song, but the video's trashy aesthetic is all over the place. What really disgusts me is that it's product placement central, what people in my farkakte business call, with no hint of irony or shame, branded entertainment. That even a music video today has to have product placement makes me gag. So did Virgin Mobile pay for this extended musical masturbation? Or what? Look, motherfuckers, I ain't drinking this Kool-Aid, okay? (unless you pay me handsomely to do it. I'm in advertising after all).
I saw Logorama, the animated short that won the Oscar. This is our world now, and it is not a good thing.
Hey. Looks like I got my kvetching-ranting mojo back.
:)
I could comment on Rush Limbaugh's broken promise to get the hell out of here and go pester the poor Costa Ricans, but not even that is getting my goat nowadays. These pompous hypocritical, drug addled, fat assed balloons of fetid, putrefying right wing air are so stupid it's almost pointless to make fun of them.
What happened to our healthcare bill? I don't understand the dynamics so I've stopped caring. Where are we on this? Anybody?
By the way, listen to this. I made an appointment to the eye doctor because I think I need new glasses. Can't see, can't hear, quickly becoming an old fartette. Hence, appointment.
They tell me that if I want a new prescription I have to pay $40 extra, because my insurance (which charges a $50 copay) doesn't cover a prescription. What fresh hell, to quote Dorothy Parker, is this? It's like going to the ice cream parlor and they can sell you the cone or the cup or the sprinkles, but not the ice cream.
This country has become an insane asylum. Nothing makes any sense any more. Which is why I am going to Chinatown, to my beloved Mott St. Optical, to get my prescription. This is where I got my bifocals (see old fartette, above), and the saleswoman told me: "You are going to love them. You are going to see everything!".
Perhaps you can enlighten me: why do rich people have reality shows on TV? A world in which the rich behave with even more abject vulgarity than the poor thoroughly depresses me. There are no standards anymore.
Same goes for fucking Lady Gaga. I saw her video with Beyonce (she does not depress me, somehow). Call me an old fartette, but no I didn't like the video. I like the song, but the video's trashy aesthetic is all over the place. What really disgusts me is that it's product placement central, what people in my farkakte business call, with no hint of irony or shame, branded entertainment. That even a music video today has to have product placement makes me gag. So did Virgin Mobile pay for this extended musical masturbation? Or what? Look, motherfuckers, I ain't drinking this Kool-Aid, okay? (unless you pay me handsomely to do it. I'm in advertising after all).
I saw Logorama, the animated short that won the Oscar. This is our world now, and it is not a good thing.
Hey. Looks like I got my kvetching-ranting mojo back.
:)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Major Writer's Block Under Removal
I scan the headlines and I can't be bothered, even if some of them are worth writing about. I have ennui due to over-fragmentation of information. I am also dangerously addicted to facebook in a bad way. I need an intervention or something. I tried twitter and I don't get it. I use facebook as if it was twittter so why bother?
IN OTHER NEWS:
• Obama eases travel restrictions to Cuba. Cool. He should end the embargo tout suite, establish relations and let that paleolithic regime succumb to the forces of greed and money like everywhere else.
• I don't like pirates.
• Yes I saw that poor woman on Britain's Got Talent. So now what? Are people going to take her seriously or they're just going to exploit her weirdness? If I was the ruler of the world, I would ban reality shows. But you are in luck. Or not.
• The other day I went to see a movie which was a master class on what not to do. How not to cast actors, how not to write dialogue, how not to rely on unnecessary, deadly voiceover narration, how not to adapt a novel, how not to take yourself so seriously and be pretentious when you do not know how to do things. It was hard going, but I learned a lot. The Mysteries of Philadelphia, if you must know. Doesn't even approach the mediocre competence of hackwork.
• Let me remind everybody that April in New York is always like this. It's still too cold, it rains too much, the winds are evil and no, you cannot retire your coats just yet. So stop the whining.
• April being the cruellest month, the other day I was thinking of Liz Taylor. She popped into my mind.
I was thinking that she must be very old and, given her poor health history, look very bad nowadays. And I thought that when that happens to formerly gorgeous movie icons, the best thing is either to go into hiding, or embrace your life and aged looks with a vengeance. Having said that, let's be honest: nobody wants to see a current picture of Brigitte Bardot, and nobody didn't jump and almost didn't have a heart attack when they saw Sophia Loren at the Oscars recently. What I'm saying is, being an international beauty icon is not easy, because age stops for no one, regardless of surgeons and treatments. Some stars age with class (Audrey Hepburn, Julie Christie) but it's not easy and I feel sorry for them all. If I, who have always decried the use of plastic surgery, am contemplating my drooping eyelids with something approaching horror and botox with something approaching possibility, well I can't imagine what it must be like when your otherwordly beauty is your identity. Must be a bitch. Which is why I'm glad I'm not that gorgeous.
So I did run into a recent picture of Liz Taylor in one of the cheesier tabloids. Oy. I guess that age is only good to you if you don't fight it.
Youth is fleeting. It makes me feel sad.
IN OTHER NEWS:
• Obama eases travel restrictions to Cuba. Cool. He should end the embargo tout suite, establish relations and let that paleolithic regime succumb to the forces of greed and money like everywhere else.
• I don't like pirates.
• Yes I saw that poor woman on Britain's Got Talent. So now what? Are people going to take her seriously or they're just going to exploit her weirdness? If I was the ruler of the world, I would ban reality shows. But you are in luck. Or not.
• The other day I went to see a movie which was a master class on what not to do. How not to cast actors, how not to write dialogue, how not to rely on unnecessary, deadly voiceover narration, how not to adapt a novel, how not to take yourself so seriously and be pretentious when you do not know how to do things. It was hard going, but I learned a lot. The Mysteries of Philadelphia, if you must know. Doesn't even approach the mediocre competence of hackwork.
• Let me remind everybody that April in New York is always like this. It's still too cold, it rains too much, the winds are evil and no, you cannot retire your coats just yet. So stop the whining.
• April being the cruellest month, the other day I was thinking of Liz Taylor. She popped into my mind.
I was thinking that she must be very old and, given her poor health history, look very bad nowadays. And I thought that when that happens to formerly gorgeous movie icons, the best thing is either to go into hiding, or embrace your life and aged looks with a vengeance. Having said that, let's be honest: nobody wants to see a current picture of Brigitte Bardot, and nobody didn't jump and almost didn't have a heart attack when they saw Sophia Loren at the Oscars recently. What I'm saying is, being an international beauty icon is not easy, because age stops for no one, regardless of surgeons and treatments. Some stars age with class (Audrey Hepburn, Julie Christie) but it's not easy and I feel sorry for them all. If I, who have always decried the use of plastic surgery, am contemplating my drooping eyelids with something approaching horror and botox with something approaching possibility, well I can't imagine what it must be like when your otherwordly beauty is your identity. Must be a bitch. Which is why I'm glad I'm not that gorgeous.
So I did run into a recent picture of Liz Taylor in one of the cheesier tabloids. Oy. I guess that age is only good to you if you don't fight it.
Youth is fleeting. It makes me feel sad.
Friday, October 10, 2008
The sky is fallin' folks
Darlings:
I have been away from this blog because of the collapse of Wall Street. To put it simply: I'm losing my shirt. If my own little personal depression is any indication, the one that's coming to all of us is going to be a bitch.
But, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping, and so I did my part as a citizen to stem the hemorrhage of the bleeding financial markets and I spent money I should be saving on a pair of boots (less expensive that the ones I really wanted), two pairs of earrings (on sale) and the cheapest hosiery ever made (Uniqlo, $4.50), probably by slave labor in China.
Then I panicked. But I didn't panic enough, like the rest of the cowardly bastards that are bringing us down, I didn't panic enough to cash out on my horrid losses.
If any of you out there has any financial advice, please feel free to contribute it. It will be appreciated.
Now, I do believe that this panic is exacerbated by the political situation in which we are in. Meaning: we have a useless retard as a President, and the candidates are behaving as if none of this is happening. We also have apparently a useless Congress and it is clear that nobody knows what to do. Whatever they are doing is not restoring confidence. How could it? Americans think they are decent, and ethical but they are crooks and have been crooks since day one. Snake oil salesmen and con men, since the first man landed in Plymouth rock. When everybody is making out like a bandit, no one gives a fuck about the incompetence of the president or the corruption or the greed, but the moment the shit hits the fan, then where is the famed American confidence, so close to arrogance? Everybody just runs for the hills.
I can understand that Obama cannot come up with a plan B right now to offer some sort of idea on how the hell he's going to deal with this lemon economy he'd be inheriting. I can understand that any specific utterance from him may create more anxiety. But surely, his plans have got to change. This crash is, to parrot the pundits, a game changer and I wish he'd acknowledge that already.
I don't talk about McCain because nothing he says is to be believed or trusted. He just condescends to Americans as if we were 5 year olds.
A couple of days ago I was channel surfing and I caught the end of the movie Recount on HBO.
It's about what happened in the Florida recount, when Bush stole the election from Al Gore.
And I was thinking (besides thinking that Kevin Spacey rocked) that I hope the stupid Supreme Court judges that contributed to this travesty of democracy are losing not only their shirts, but sleep and health and peace of mind over what they did to this country. I hope they can never rest. I hope guilt eats their entrails. There is not enough repentance they could show or feel to atone for what they unleashed upon this nation. Same goes for Alan Greenspan. And same goes of Al Gore, who should have kicked and screamed and fought until the last ballot was accounted for.
I have been away from this blog because of the collapse of Wall Street. To put it simply: I'm losing my shirt. If my own little personal depression is any indication, the one that's coming to all of us is going to be a bitch.
But, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping, and so I did my part as a citizen to stem the hemorrhage of the bleeding financial markets and I spent money I should be saving on a pair of boots (less expensive that the ones I really wanted), two pairs of earrings (on sale) and the cheapest hosiery ever made (Uniqlo, $4.50), probably by slave labor in China.
Then I panicked. But I didn't panic enough, like the rest of the cowardly bastards that are bringing us down, I didn't panic enough to cash out on my horrid losses.
If any of you out there has any financial advice, please feel free to contribute it. It will be appreciated.
Now, I do believe that this panic is exacerbated by the political situation in which we are in. Meaning: we have a useless retard as a President, and the candidates are behaving as if none of this is happening. We also have apparently a useless Congress and it is clear that nobody knows what to do. Whatever they are doing is not restoring confidence. How could it? Americans think they are decent, and ethical but they are crooks and have been crooks since day one. Snake oil salesmen and con men, since the first man landed in Plymouth rock. When everybody is making out like a bandit, no one gives a fuck about the incompetence of the president or the corruption or the greed, but the moment the shit hits the fan, then where is the famed American confidence, so close to arrogance? Everybody just runs for the hills.
I can understand that Obama cannot come up with a plan B right now to offer some sort of idea on how the hell he's going to deal with this lemon economy he'd be inheriting. I can understand that any specific utterance from him may create more anxiety. But surely, his plans have got to change. This crash is, to parrot the pundits, a game changer and I wish he'd acknowledge that already.
I don't talk about McCain because nothing he says is to be believed or trusted. He just condescends to Americans as if we were 5 year olds.
A couple of days ago I was channel surfing and I caught the end of the movie Recount on HBO.
It's about what happened in the Florida recount, when Bush stole the election from Al Gore.
And I was thinking (besides thinking that Kevin Spacey rocked) that I hope the stupid Supreme Court judges that contributed to this travesty of democracy are losing not only their shirts, but sleep and health and peace of mind over what they did to this country. I hope they can never rest. I hope guilt eats their entrails. There is not enough repentance they could show or feel to atone for what they unleashed upon this nation. Same goes for Alan Greenspan. And same goes of Al Gore, who should have kicked and screamed and fought until the last ballot was accounted for.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Now I feel really bad...
...for raining acrimony on that poor, sweet girl who uses the internet to talk about her most private hopes and dreams. And who, regardless of the invective she has unleashed upon herself from sundry put upon readers, will probably parlay these notorious 15 minutes into many more profitable minutes for years to come. Unfortunately, this kind of inane confessional shtick works like a charm in America, especially when it comes from young, cute and tattooed writerettes.
If you feel a whiff of envy wafting across your computer screen, well yes, of course (except for the tattoos. Yuck.)
And so, in the spirit of empathy with navelgazing writers everywhere, I will share with you, my dear readers, mon semblables, mon freres, something of a deeply personal nature:
I have a very good reason to navel gaze today. I have a horrible rash across my entire torso and the back of my neck. It's very red and it itches like a mother.
I have 4 theories of why this is happening on a day when I should be out basking in the sun, enjoying the holiday in which we are supposed to remember the war dead, as our brain dead President urges us (but not think too much of those who are in the process of being freshly killed).
1. It's punishment for being so horrible to Emily Gould.
2. (and from here on the theories are much more likely):
Sun rash, or as they elegantly call it on WebMd, photosensitivity. My tofu-colored complexion had not been in the sun for eons and as I went for an enjoyable bicycle ride yesterday and read the NY Times in the park, I was attacked by the sun, despite the fact that I was wearing SPF 45.
3. Contact dermatitis, a byproduct of the above mentioned sunscreen and another cream I slathered on after I took a shower. This is unlikely, as my extremities, which were covered with SPF, are the only part of my body that does not look like a school of shrimp.
4. The crab and pork soup dumplings at Joe's Shanghai. I never eat those because my dining companions never want to order them, but yesterday the brave (and actual talented writer) Mercedes Cebrián, on her farewell lunch from a whirlwind tour of the States, was happy to oblige. I am not allergic to shellfish, that I know of, but I guess it's never too late to start. However, we are wary of blaming Joe's Shanghai for anything, as it is the temple where we suck at the teat of nirvana.
My guess is I was attacked by Helios, mercifully early into the season, yet as a warning to not even attempt to show myself in the bright light of Summer if not covered by something resembling a burka.
Just so you know, calamine lotion made it worse. If any of you have any conspiracy theories of your own 0r any idea of what I need to do to end this dermatological ordeal, your comments will be greatly appreciated.
If you feel a whiff of envy wafting across your computer screen, well yes, of course (except for the tattoos. Yuck.)
And so, in the spirit of empathy with navelgazing writers everywhere, I will share with you, my dear readers, mon semblables, mon freres, something of a deeply personal nature:
I have a very good reason to navel gaze today. I have a horrible rash across my entire torso and the back of my neck. It's very red and it itches like a mother.
I have 4 theories of why this is happening on a day when I should be out basking in the sun, enjoying the holiday in which we are supposed to remember the war dead, as our brain dead President urges us (but not think too much of those who are in the process of being freshly killed).
1. It's punishment for being so horrible to Emily Gould.
2. (and from here on the theories are much more likely):
Sun rash, or as they elegantly call it on WebMd, photosensitivity. My tofu-colored complexion had not been in the sun for eons and as I went for an enjoyable bicycle ride yesterday and read the NY Times in the park, I was attacked by the sun, despite the fact that I was wearing SPF 45.
3. Contact dermatitis, a byproduct of the above mentioned sunscreen and another cream I slathered on after I took a shower. This is unlikely, as my extremities, which were covered with SPF, are the only part of my body that does not look like a school of shrimp.
4. The crab and pork soup dumplings at Joe's Shanghai. I never eat those because my dining companions never want to order them, but yesterday the brave (and actual talented writer) Mercedes Cebrián, on her farewell lunch from a whirlwind tour of the States, was happy to oblige. I am not allergic to shellfish, that I know of, but I guess it's never too late to start. However, we are wary of blaming Joe's Shanghai for anything, as it is the temple where we suck at the teat of nirvana.
My guess is I was attacked by Helios, mercifully early into the season, yet as a warning to not even attempt to show myself in the bright light of Summer if not covered by something resembling a burka.
Just so you know, calamine lotion made it worse. If any of you have any conspiracy theories of your own 0r any idea of what I need to do to end this dermatological ordeal, your comments will be greatly appreciated.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Nostalgia isn't what it used to be
I miss things that happened when I wasn't even born yet. I miss Greenwich Village in the 50s, the Lower East Side in the 20s, Mexico City in the 30s and Florence in the 1400s.
I miss New York when there wasn't a freaking bank in every corner. I miss it so much, it hurts.
The other day I met a group of Spaniards who like dives, so I told them I would take them to some major legendary dives and then I was racking my brains to think of any that may still be around.
I know it is a fact of life that when you reach my advance age, you resist and fear the change around you. But I also know I'm not the only one decrying the way New York is becoming more and more generic, losing more and more of its gritty charm. Even in freaking Jackson Heights there are banks in every corner now.
Yesterday I went on a tour of the synagogue of the Greek Jews of Ioannina (Broome and Allen, LES). Romaniot Jews that hail from the time of Alexander the Great or the time of the Roman expulsion of the Jews, a long time ago. It was extremely interesting that these people are striving so hard to keep their synagogue open and their unique traditions alive. Many of the original Romaniot Jews intermingled with Sephardic Jews that came to Greece (or Turkey, depending on the year) since 1492. Some spoke Ladino. We were served a lunch of burekas and feta cheese and stuffed grape leaves and delicious middle eastern pastries. The community is struggling to keep the synagogue open, as many of its members have decamped to other places, from Brooklyn to Long Island or Florida, even.
But they are the only Romaniot Synagogue in the western hemisphere and they recently renovated their lovely, humble temple. Good for them.
Marcia, the director of the museum made a special mention of the fact that people want to have the Lower East Side designated as a historic preservation district to stop the rampant gentrification and the terrible loss of the character of this amazing neighborhood. I hope it happens.
I believe there can be change that does not destroy the character of a place. People are trying to get Greenwich Village designated too, but it seems that the real muscle here is the power of money and preserving stuff doesn't make developers money.
I'm very sad.
I miss New York when there wasn't a freaking bank in every corner. I miss it so much, it hurts.
The other day I met a group of Spaniards who like dives, so I told them I would take them to some major legendary dives and then I was racking my brains to think of any that may still be around.
I know it is a fact of life that when you reach my advance age, you resist and fear the change around you. But I also know I'm not the only one decrying the way New York is becoming more and more generic, losing more and more of its gritty charm. Even in freaking Jackson Heights there are banks in every corner now.
Yesterday I went on a tour of the synagogue of the Greek Jews of Ioannina (Broome and Allen, LES). Romaniot Jews that hail from the time of Alexander the Great or the time of the Roman expulsion of the Jews, a long time ago. It was extremely interesting that these people are striving so hard to keep their synagogue open and their unique traditions alive. Many of the original Romaniot Jews intermingled with Sephardic Jews that came to Greece (or Turkey, depending on the year) since 1492. Some spoke Ladino. We were served a lunch of burekas and feta cheese and stuffed grape leaves and delicious middle eastern pastries. The community is struggling to keep the synagogue open, as many of its members have decamped to other places, from Brooklyn to Long Island or Florida, even.
But they are the only Romaniot Synagogue in the western hemisphere and they recently renovated their lovely, humble temple. Good for them.
Marcia, the director of the museum made a special mention of the fact that people want to have the Lower East Side designated as a historic preservation district to stop the rampant gentrification and the terrible loss of the character of this amazing neighborhood. I hope it happens.
I believe there can be change that does not destroy the character of a place. People are trying to get Greenwich Village designated too, but it seems that the real muscle here is the power of money and preserving stuff doesn't make developers money.
I'm very sad.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Consequences of Hatha Yoga
It's been a long time since I kvetched, so here goes:
On Saturday morning I ventured out and into a Hatha Yoga class. I had stopped doing yoga for years because, my dear readers, I have a lower back pain injury, which I believe was caused, among other things such as terrible posture, sitting too long in front of a laptop, and no abdominal muscle tone, by a yoga class where the abominable teacher insisted we could all become human pretzels. Well, she didn't know me. But, boy did she screw me up.
I have been fighting this pestering pain, which is like a nagging visiting relative who decided to stay for good, for at least 5 years. I was told "no more yoga for you". But as I'm currently under the apparently unattainable quest to lose a bunch of pounds, I decided to give Hatha a crack, since this form of yoga is the one where you stay in the different positions, as opposed to running from one to the other as if someone was trying to set you on fire. Moreover, it is the yoga that my beloved aunt Dora practices and recommends.
Well, to make a long story short, it was grueling. Today, everything aches. But I expected my lower back pain to pulsate with a vengeance the next day, and so far it hasn't. I don't know if I am so sore all over that I can't even feel it, and yet it is there as usual; or this crazy feygeleh teacher (who actually had a very delicate touch) did something that actually took my back pain away. If this is indeed the case, wow.
Anyway.
The other thing that happened is that I seem to have caught some kind of sleeping malady. I am beset by sleepiness and I haven't been up that late. I just woke from a nap from which I could not wake up. Are these things connected? Did my body get such a thorough workout that now all it wants to do is sleep? Hmmm.... If anybody has an answer, please chime in.
On Saturday morning I ventured out and into a Hatha Yoga class. I had stopped doing yoga for years because, my dear readers, I have a lower back pain injury, which I believe was caused, among other things such as terrible posture, sitting too long in front of a laptop, and no abdominal muscle tone, by a yoga class where the abominable teacher insisted we could all become human pretzels. Well, she didn't know me. But, boy did she screw me up.
I have been fighting this pestering pain, which is like a nagging visiting relative who decided to stay for good, for at least 5 years. I was told "no more yoga for you". But as I'm currently under the apparently unattainable quest to lose a bunch of pounds, I decided to give Hatha a crack, since this form of yoga is the one where you stay in the different positions, as opposed to running from one to the other as if someone was trying to set you on fire. Moreover, it is the yoga that my beloved aunt Dora practices and recommends.
Well, to make a long story short, it was grueling. Today, everything aches. But I expected my lower back pain to pulsate with a vengeance the next day, and so far it hasn't. I don't know if I am so sore all over that I can't even feel it, and yet it is there as usual; or this crazy feygeleh teacher (who actually had a very delicate touch) did something that actually took my back pain away. If this is indeed the case, wow.
Anyway.
The other thing that happened is that I seem to have caught some kind of sleeping malady. I am beset by sleepiness and I haven't been up that late. I just woke from a nap from which I could not wake up. Are these things connected? Did my body get such a thorough workout that now all it wants to do is sleep? Hmmm.... If anybody has an answer, please chime in.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Department of Stomach Ailments + Book Reviews
I'm relegated to stay home with a case of an unwanted guest crashing in my bowels since yesterday, courtesy of a wilted looking Cobb salad at the corner diner. (See? This is what happens for eating healthy). I'm contemplating calling the health department, but I don't want to leave any Mexican cooks and busboys out of a job.
My fever has subsided (and with it the chills and body aches -- Tylenol works!), but the guest is still here, and partying like there is no tomorrow, keeping me by force, close to the loo. Department of too much info, I know, but this pesky little creature does not allow me to concentrate on loftier topics.
You also must know that we Mexicans consider it perfectly normal, socially acceptable and indeed a daily occurrence, to talk in great length about our bowels and their discontents. It's in my blood.
So, instead of basking in the glorious Spring weather, like the rest of you, I have been able to continue reading The Russians' Debutante Handbook, by Gary Shteyngart. I know this book may be old hat to many of you, but I just discovered it ($5 at Strand) and I'm getting such a kick out of it, I think I am in love with Mr. Shteyngart.
1. He is hilarious. The satire is endlessly biting, no one is unscathed. It is cruel and comical, very precisely observed, and beautifully written.
2. He is not fond of Eastern Europe and its barbarities, and so I find a writer after my own heart. He sets the novel in a fictional city called Prava, which is transparently Prague, and his expert skewering of locals and expats alike is delightful. I'm having a ball reading this book. I have read books that make you laugh out loud more times per page, but this one just makes you shake your head and marvel at pretty much every sentence.
Next on my list, I guess, will be his second novel, Absurdistan.
Since we are on the subject of books, what else have I read lately?
Oh, yes. I was given as a birthday present this book called Eat, Pray, Love, a mega bestseller. It's the journey of self discovery of a self-involved, navel gazing woman, who, despite all of her discoveries, seems to be as self-involved and navel-gazing at the end of the book as she was at the beginning. Except before she was miserable, and after pasta in Italy, ashram in India and magic man in Bali, she is happy. (I would have had the pasta in Italy and left it at that). I hope my dear friend Sonia will forgive me for not liking this book. My eyes rolled so many times on every page, I was beginning to feel like that girl from The Exorcist. However, I couldn't put it down. Not because it was suspenseful or I wanted to know what was going to happen, but because it was so fascinatingly appalling, I just had to see it through. The writing seemed to me sloppy and witless and not particularly insightful or well observed (I guess powers of observation must be quite limited when you are gazing at your navel with such focussed concentration). But the book did give me something very useful. It actually gave me a meditation mantra. Readers, do not panic. I have not yet gone out of my spirituality-hating wits. But all of us, and particularly those of us for whom life is a catastrophe waiting to happen, can sometimes benefit from a little peace of mind. I have tried a couple of mantras here and there, mainly to lull myself to sleep, and the one the writer shares in this book is the only one that actually seems to work. So for that, I'm grateful to her.
If you must know, I am also learning Tai Chi. Soon I will be dispensing wisdom from a cave in a mountain.
For the time being, however, I am as grounded as possible, wishing my unwelcome squatter a hasty departure.
My fever has subsided (and with it the chills and body aches -- Tylenol works!), but the guest is still here, and partying like there is no tomorrow, keeping me by force, close to the loo. Department of too much info, I know, but this pesky little creature does not allow me to concentrate on loftier topics.
You also must know that we Mexicans consider it perfectly normal, socially acceptable and indeed a daily occurrence, to talk in great length about our bowels and their discontents. It's in my blood.
So, instead of basking in the glorious Spring weather, like the rest of you, I have been able to continue reading The Russians' Debutante Handbook, by Gary Shteyngart. I know this book may be old hat to many of you, but I just discovered it ($5 at Strand) and I'm getting such a kick out of it, I think I am in love with Mr. Shteyngart.
1. He is hilarious. The satire is endlessly biting, no one is unscathed. It is cruel and comical, very precisely observed, and beautifully written.
2. He is not fond of Eastern Europe and its barbarities, and so I find a writer after my own heart. He sets the novel in a fictional city called Prava, which is transparently Prague, and his expert skewering of locals and expats alike is delightful. I'm having a ball reading this book. I have read books that make you laugh out loud more times per page, but this one just makes you shake your head and marvel at pretty much every sentence.
Next on my list, I guess, will be his second novel, Absurdistan.
Since we are on the subject of books, what else have I read lately?
Oh, yes. I was given as a birthday present this book called Eat, Pray, Love, a mega bestseller. It's the journey of self discovery of a self-involved, navel gazing woman, who, despite all of her discoveries, seems to be as self-involved and navel-gazing at the end of the book as she was at the beginning. Except before she was miserable, and after pasta in Italy, ashram in India and magic man in Bali, she is happy. (I would have had the pasta in Italy and left it at that). I hope my dear friend Sonia will forgive me for not liking this book. My eyes rolled so many times on every page, I was beginning to feel like that girl from The Exorcist. However, I couldn't put it down. Not because it was suspenseful or I wanted to know what was going to happen, but because it was so fascinatingly appalling, I just had to see it through. The writing seemed to me sloppy and witless and not particularly insightful or well observed (I guess powers of observation must be quite limited when you are gazing at your navel with such focussed concentration). But the book did give me something very useful. It actually gave me a meditation mantra. Readers, do not panic. I have not yet gone out of my spirituality-hating wits. But all of us, and particularly those of us for whom life is a catastrophe waiting to happen, can sometimes benefit from a little peace of mind. I have tried a couple of mantras here and there, mainly to lull myself to sleep, and the one the writer shares in this book is the only one that actually seems to work. So for that, I'm grateful to her.
If you must know, I am also learning Tai Chi. Soon I will be dispensing wisdom from a cave in a mountain.
For the time being, however, I am as grounded as possible, wishing my unwelcome squatter a hasty departure.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Bully Bully
Always at the forefront of last week's news, today we want to talk about bullies in the workplace. An article in the increasingly USA Todayish New York Times had hundreds of people spilling their guts about being bullied in the office. Long, anguished texts describe horrid behavior from bosses, coworkers and underlings alike. Women are found to be terrible, frequent offenders.
I think the word bully does not do justice to who these people are. Bully sounds almost innocuous. I propose: evil, pustulent miscreants.
But since we are in a confessional mode, here are some of my bullying stories.
In my case, they are rather mild. I've been mostly lucky to work with nice, decent people in the best cases, and, in the worst, terribly inept, chaotic bureaucrats, but not too many bullies. When a bully has reared its ugly head, I've never stuck around for too long after that. I can only take so much unhappiness and humiliation in my daily life. Life is too short.
However, I've had very bad bosses. The first one was a shrew, way back when, who was not technically a bully but a singularly undiplomatic, rude, unprofessional, miserable bitch. Imperious, unfair, full of herself, she got a kick of making overqualified people run her petty errands. She ran a pathetic office as if it was the Principality of Monaco.
She was the director, I was the assistant director. She would constantly ask us to do things after work hours. One day she asked me to go pick up her dry cleaning. I refused.
She gave me some sermon about how disappointed she was at my uncooperative attitude. I don't remember how she justified such an inexcusable request, but I still refused. She never asked again.
She got me fired because I refused to lie to other employees about my salary raise. I said I would not volunteer the information, but if someone asked, I would not lie. She flew into a rage, screamed and snapped her fingers at me and fired me. For a couple of years after my departure, former assistant directors and I would sometimes meet at a café and reminisce, exchanging horror stories about her. There were plenty.
I had another boss, one of those secretary-to-CEO types, who was utterly incapable of recognizing a good advertising idea if it bit her in the ass, but would berate you, at 11 o'clock at night, for using staples instead of paper clips. 8 months is all I lasted, and I can't believe it took me so long.
Another time, as a freelancer, I was told to work with a creative team, two women who had been there since the paleolithic era. One of them was a real verbissener bitch, the corners of her mouth permanently contorted into a grimace; the other one was slightly less toxic. It amazes me how instead of happily welcoming someone and looking forward to collaborate, evil, pustulent miscreants expend so much energy and effort in sabotage activities. These two did everything in their power to exclude me from the work. They did not let me know when they were meeting, they did not answer my calls and, at one point, when I proved to be too much of a pest, one of them actually told me that they were used to working on their own. So I went to my little forlorn cubicle and worked on my own too. I was advised to rat them out to their boss, but I really didn't want to be a crybaby. We're supposed to be adults, no? Instead I asked them to involve me. They said yes to my face and then ignored me. Then they had no qualms about using what I wrote and passing it off as theirs. Both really expended all their energy in resisting everything that their boss asked of them. Entrenched, bitter resistance to every single request. As a freelancer, I did not want to be perceived as whiny or contentious, so I did not say anything. But I do think that they made it look as if I was not contributing enough.
I left my job of 15 years when a new chief creative officer was brought in who was indeed a bully. I had two brushes with his Napoleonic, delusional self and realized that it was time to call it quits. In the space of a year, he managed to destroy an advertising agency that had been profitable and well-respected for over 20 years.
When confronted with this kind of people, my consolation (something I learned that first and last time I was ever fired), is that one does not need to wish hell on evil, pustulent miscreants, because they already live in a hell of their own devising every second of their pernicious, dessicated lives. But the more important lesson is that bullies happen because we let them.
Put your foot down, and make it harder for them to make it hard for you.
I think the word bully does not do justice to who these people are. Bully sounds almost innocuous. I propose: evil, pustulent miscreants.
But since we are in a confessional mode, here are some of my bullying stories.
In my case, they are rather mild. I've been mostly lucky to work with nice, decent people in the best cases, and, in the worst, terribly inept, chaotic bureaucrats, but not too many bullies. When a bully has reared its ugly head, I've never stuck around for too long after that. I can only take so much unhappiness and humiliation in my daily life. Life is too short.
However, I've had very bad bosses. The first one was a shrew, way back when, who was not technically a bully but a singularly undiplomatic, rude, unprofessional, miserable bitch. Imperious, unfair, full of herself, she got a kick of making overqualified people run her petty errands. She ran a pathetic office as if it was the Principality of Monaco.
She was the director, I was the assistant director. She would constantly ask us to do things after work hours. One day she asked me to go pick up her dry cleaning. I refused.
She gave me some sermon about how disappointed she was at my uncooperative attitude. I don't remember how she justified such an inexcusable request, but I still refused. She never asked again.
She got me fired because I refused to lie to other employees about my salary raise. I said I would not volunteer the information, but if someone asked, I would not lie. She flew into a rage, screamed and snapped her fingers at me and fired me. For a couple of years after my departure, former assistant directors and I would sometimes meet at a café and reminisce, exchanging horror stories about her. There were plenty.
I had another boss, one of those secretary-to-CEO types, who was utterly incapable of recognizing a good advertising idea if it bit her in the ass, but would berate you, at 11 o'clock at night, for using staples instead of paper clips. 8 months is all I lasted, and I can't believe it took me so long.
Another time, as a freelancer, I was told to work with a creative team, two women who had been there since the paleolithic era. One of them was a real verbissener bitch, the corners of her mouth permanently contorted into a grimace; the other one was slightly less toxic. It amazes me how instead of happily welcoming someone and looking forward to collaborate, evil, pustulent miscreants expend so much energy and effort in sabotage activities. These two did everything in their power to exclude me from the work. They did not let me know when they were meeting, they did not answer my calls and, at one point, when I proved to be too much of a pest, one of them actually told me that they were used to working on their own. So I went to my little forlorn cubicle and worked on my own too. I was advised to rat them out to their boss, but I really didn't want to be a crybaby. We're supposed to be adults, no? Instead I asked them to involve me. They said yes to my face and then ignored me. Then they had no qualms about using what I wrote and passing it off as theirs. Both really expended all their energy in resisting everything that their boss asked of them. Entrenched, bitter resistance to every single request. As a freelancer, I did not want to be perceived as whiny or contentious, so I did not say anything. But I do think that they made it look as if I was not contributing enough.
I left my job of 15 years when a new chief creative officer was brought in who was indeed a bully. I had two brushes with his Napoleonic, delusional self and realized that it was time to call it quits. In the space of a year, he managed to destroy an advertising agency that had been profitable and well-respected for over 20 years.
When confronted with this kind of people, my consolation (something I learned that first and last time I was ever fired), is that one does not need to wish hell on evil, pustulent miscreants, because they already live in a hell of their own devising every second of their pernicious, dessicated lives. But the more important lesson is that bullies happen because we let them.
Put your foot down, and make it harder for them to make it hard for you.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Good Scrabulous PR
If I were Mattel or Hasbro, the people who control the Scrabble trademark, instead of asking the creators of Scrabulous to cease and desist, I would be forever grateful that they revitalized the brand and created millions of new fans, many of which may buy a real board so they can play with people instead of a computer screen.
Yes the genius brothers who created it certainly took Scrabble as a model, but how many cases of real Scrabble are sold each year to wonks like me? It's nobody's but their own fault that these companies did not develop a virtual Scrabble, which is a genius idea, with all the resources they have. Their bad.
I have one board game, untouched, I bought like ten years ago. But now, I'm playing transatlantic Scrabulous with my friend Mimosa who is creaming me from Paris, and if it was up to me I'd be playing all day.
I just have one beef. The game won't let me do (or I am too stupid to figure out how to do) a multiple word in one play, like Mimosa does all the time, thereby creaming me.
Yes the genius brothers who created it certainly took Scrabble as a model, but how many cases of real Scrabble are sold each year to wonks like me? It's nobody's but their own fault that these companies did not develop a virtual Scrabble, which is a genius idea, with all the resources they have. Their bad.
I have one board game, untouched, I bought like ten years ago. But now, I'm playing transatlantic Scrabulous with my friend Mimosa who is creaming me from Paris, and if it was up to me I'd be playing all day.
I just have one beef. The game won't let me do (or I am too stupid to figure out how to do) a multiple word in one play, like Mimosa does all the time, thereby creaming me.
Monday, December 17, 2007
The Tipping Point
There is a very amusing article in the Times today about the conundrum of holiday tipping. The article is not so funny, what is funny are the comments. I detect a real resentment of having to tip in this town.
There were about 150 commenters, most of which, if I surmised correctly, are very annoyed at tipping.
The whole point of the comments was for people to spill the beans and say what they tip, but very few people were willing to do this. Everybody kvetched and moaned and yakked, but nobody fessed up, except for a person who disclosed her annual income at 2.5 million and proceeded to list in detail all the money they give their servants. Tacky, tacky, tacky. There is always someone like that in NY, that needs for all the world to know how well off they are, if only anonymously.
I have always maintained that the service in restaurants and bars should be included, like it is in Europe. I am tired of disappointing the wait staff when I ask for tap water or when I only order one dish. Some of them look at you funny. Like with contempt. Others feel your pain.
As for tipping the building staff, I come from Mexico, where people make so little money, they actually come here to make more, so tipping is as fact of life. However, because labor is cheap, tips are cheap too. Very few people leave more than 10% tips for waitstaff, for instance. They think 15% is an outrage. Which makes me think that it is true that the more you have, the less you give.
In countries like Mexico, however, it is the law to give company employees a year end bonus, an "aguinaldo" which I think is one month's salary. There is also a law about profit sharing. This is supposed to be received by everyone, whether they did the job or not.
In Mexico everybody who can afford one has at least one maid. The maids always get a Christmas tip. The supers, the mailman, the guys who deliver the gas tanks, everyone gets a handout. At one point policemen were making the neighborhood rounds and ringing my doorbell in Mexico City for a tip (it is yet to be determined what exemplary service they performed). So if you think NY is out of control...
but then again in Mexico people make miserable wages, so tipping does redress that a bit.
I don't mind tipping the super and the handymen and the doormen, but I am a bit taken aback by some of the figures people bandy about in NY. People are such show offs. I think the tip should be a simple token of appreciation for a job well done, not a financial booster. It is a gesture of good will, and it should be voluntary and meritocratic (of course, if you don't tip, you live in fear that the staff will never help you again).
A personal trainer commenter complained that his millionaire client gives him a bag of oranges as a present as a Xmas tip. This promptly became Orangegate, with people coming down hard on this guy for kvetching.
The fact that his client is a gazillionaire does not oblige him to be a generous tipper. And in fact, it does not oblige him to tip. He's already paying the guy his fees. The gesture should be enough.
On both sides of the debate, it seems to come down to greed and not generosity. There are those who want better tips, and those who have a hard time parting with their money on the grounds that the people are already being paid for the job.
There were about 150 commenters, most of which, if I surmised correctly, are very annoyed at tipping.
The whole point of the comments was for people to spill the beans and say what they tip, but very few people were willing to do this. Everybody kvetched and moaned and yakked, but nobody fessed up, except for a person who disclosed her annual income at 2.5 million and proceeded to list in detail all the money they give their servants. Tacky, tacky, tacky. There is always someone like that in NY, that needs for all the world to know how well off they are, if only anonymously.
I have always maintained that the service in restaurants and bars should be included, like it is in Europe. I am tired of disappointing the wait staff when I ask for tap water or when I only order one dish. Some of them look at you funny. Like with contempt. Others feel your pain.
As for tipping the building staff, I come from Mexico, where people make so little money, they actually come here to make more, so tipping is as fact of life. However, because labor is cheap, tips are cheap too. Very few people leave more than 10% tips for waitstaff, for instance. They think 15% is an outrage. Which makes me think that it is true that the more you have, the less you give.
In countries like Mexico, however, it is the law to give company employees a year end bonus, an "aguinaldo" which I think is one month's salary. There is also a law about profit sharing. This is supposed to be received by everyone, whether they did the job or not.
In Mexico everybody who can afford one has at least one maid. The maids always get a Christmas tip. The supers, the mailman, the guys who deliver the gas tanks, everyone gets a handout. At one point policemen were making the neighborhood rounds and ringing my doorbell in Mexico City for a tip (it is yet to be determined what exemplary service they performed). So if you think NY is out of control...
but then again in Mexico people make miserable wages, so tipping does redress that a bit.
I don't mind tipping the super and the handymen and the doormen, but I am a bit taken aback by some of the figures people bandy about in NY. People are such show offs. I think the tip should be a simple token of appreciation for a job well done, not a financial booster. It is a gesture of good will, and it should be voluntary and meritocratic (of course, if you don't tip, you live in fear that the staff will never help you again).
A personal trainer commenter complained that his millionaire client gives him a bag of oranges as a present as a Xmas tip. This promptly became Orangegate, with people coming down hard on this guy for kvetching.
The fact that his client is a gazillionaire does not oblige him to be a generous tipper. And in fact, it does not oblige him to tip. He's already paying the guy his fees. The gesture should be enough.
On both sides of the debate, it seems to come down to greed and not generosity. There are those who want better tips, and those who have a hard time parting with their money on the grounds that the people are already being paid for the job.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Rocket Science of Sleep
I swear. Sometimes it takes actual scientists to convince people of stuff that nobody needs to be a neurosurgeon to figure out. If I tell it to you, you will tell me it's old wives tales, but if the scientists in the Mogo in the Gogogo Journal of Medicine tell you, I bet you listen to them.
So here it is, what I do every night in order to be able to sleep, (I am easily overstimulated) from exhaustive scientific studies in at least two journals:
So here it is, what I do every night in order to be able to sleep, (I am easily overstimulated) from exhaustive scientific studies in at least two journals:
The behavioral strategies for better sleep are deceptively simple, and that’s one reason why many people don’t believe they can make a difference. One of the most effective methods is stimulus control. This means not watching television, eating or reading in bed. Don’t go to bed until you are sleepy. Get up at the same time every day, and don’t nap during the day. If you are unable to sleep, get out of bed after 15 minutes and do something relaxing, but avoid stimulating activity and thoughts.So-called sleep hygiene is also part of sleep therapy. This includes regular exercise, adding light-proof blinds to your bedroom to keep it dark and making sure the bed and room temperatures are comfortable. Eat regular meals, don’t go to bed hungry and limit beverages, particularly alcohol and caffeinated drinks, around bedtime.
I deserve a Nobel prize.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Why these things never happen to me?
All I've ever found in the NY garbage that was valuable is a copy of a book by Simon Schama. And here is this woman who sees a painting stuck in the garbage and it turns out to be a stolen Rufino Tamayo from 1970 that is worth about a million dollars or more. It's unbelievable.
She has returned it and gotten a finders fee of $15,000. The painting is going up for auction at Sotheby's. It is beautiful.
She has returned it and gotten a finders fee of $15,000. The painting is going up for auction at Sotheby's. It is beautiful.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Bite Me
Soon we won't be able to make fun of bad British teeth anymore. America is going to be a land of people with bad teeth, and if that is not a sure omen of the Decline and Fall of the American Empire, I don't know what is. According to the NYT, this country is going through a serious dental crisis, while dentists are laughing all the way to the bank.
When I was a little girl travelling here from Enchilada Land, I was always amazed at the whiteness and straightness and perfection of the American mouth. People had teeth as white and strong as the cliffs of Dover and they made sure they showed them to you, luckily with a smile, at the slightest provocation. My mother used to say it was due to the good American milk, not the watery stuff that we drank in Mexico.
Alas, good American teeth may soon become an icon from the past, like three martini lunches, Marilyn Monroe standing on a grate and other great long gone American inventions.
Just another sign that we are going down the drain, people.
The article claims that lots of people don't have dental insurance and they let their teeth go to seed. But I bet it is more than that. Show me a person who enjoys going to the dentist (who is not a demented pervert). Going to the dentist is hateful, even if you happen to have a nice dentist with a soft touch. So lots of people with seemingly healthy teeth just don't go. And who can blame them?
Dentistry has got to be one of the most unglamorous professions out there, (when I think of two things I couldn't possibly do for a living, one is dentistry and the other is flight attendant) but they do make out like bandits. And why shouldn't they? Would you like to stick your hands on people's stinky mouths all day long?
And what's with the drill? Do dentists not hear that torturing, screeching sound? Are dentists secret sadists?
When I was a little girl travelling here from Enchilada Land, I was always amazed at the whiteness and straightness and perfection of the American mouth. People had teeth as white and strong as the cliffs of Dover and they made sure they showed them to you, luckily with a smile, at the slightest provocation. My mother used to say it was due to the good American milk, not the watery stuff that we drank in Mexico.
Alas, good American teeth may soon become an icon from the past, like three martini lunches, Marilyn Monroe standing on a grate and other great long gone American inventions.
Just another sign that we are going down the drain, people.
The article claims that lots of people don't have dental insurance and they let their teeth go to seed. But I bet it is more than that. Show me a person who enjoys going to the dentist (who is not a demented pervert). Going to the dentist is hateful, even if you happen to have a nice dentist with a soft touch. So lots of people with seemingly healthy teeth just don't go. And who can blame them?
Dentistry has got to be one of the most unglamorous professions out there, (when I think of two things I couldn't possibly do for a living, one is dentistry and the other is flight attendant) but they do make out like bandits. And why shouldn't they? Would you like to stick your hands on people's stinky mouths all day long?
And what's with the drill? Do dentists not hear that torturing, screeching sound? Are dentists secret sadists?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
