Today was the first day off I've had in close to a month. I had a perfectly nice plan to go into the city and see the new Leonard Cohen documentary, aptly titled Leonard Cohen, I'm Your Man playing at Film Forum. I have a hard time telling New York's arthouse theaters apart, and it was only after I arrived that I realized, I had never before seen a movie at Film Forum before. Because they have been, without fail, sold out. But I arrived with forty-five minutes to spare and figured that I could run my one errand of the day, going to the bank, after I bought tickets. Instead when I plonked my debit card down on the counter I was told that they only took cash, but there was an atm around the corner. I figured I could run to the bank and be back in time to make the movie, but of course when I got back (all of twenty minutes later) it was sold out I had to buy a ticket for the next showing, two and a half hours later. If I had had a book with me this would have been fine, I could find a coffeshop and kill two and a half hours no problem. But I didn't.
So instead I got a delicious beet and goat cheese sandwich at the Sullivan Street Bakery and read a few articles in the Times Styles Section. Afterwards, I decided to head over to the river but was confronted by two unexpected occurences: rain and 16 year old divos. The rain I could have dealt with, but 200 hundred 16 year olds in last Halloween's Rainbow Brite costumes was another matter. I walked west along Charles Street, only to get sucked into the vortex of the Gay Pride Parade and spend the next two hours wending my way back down to Houston Street. Somewhere around Christopher Street and Washington Street, I got stabbed by a kebab skewer in the crush of the crowd.
By the time I got to my seat at the theater, I was irritated and exhausted. The movie fortunately was amazing. It was not only a musical retrospective but also a spritual journey, I felt inspired and transformed by the time the credit's rolled. I've long respected Cohen's song-writing ability, but I like covers of his songs more than his own versions. The performances, which had all been taped at a concert last year at Sydny's Opera House, were interspersed by interviews with Cohen and the musicians participating in the concert. Once I got over the interviews interupting the music, I fell in love with the movie.
On my way home, I sated my craving for Mexican food at Le Esquina with a avocado con queso torta. The service was ridiculously amateur with two hipsters manning the counter. The boy hipster spilled my change all over the place when handing it to me and didn't seem to notice. While waiting for my food, I watched as domestic hipsters tried furtively to gain access to the "speakeasy" downstairs and foreign hipsters confusedly tried to order food. The sandwich itself was a party in my mouth.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Saturday, June 17, 2006
I thought you were from somewhere else.
I took a long two-hour walk today all through Clinton Hill, Fort Greene, Boreum Hill, Cobble Hill, Gowanus, Park Slope and Prospect Heights and then finally back to Clinton Hill. When I was two blocks from my apartment, this crazy women asked me for the time. Seriously she had a beard, no joke. I told her the time, and then we both looked up the street to the Williamsburgh Savings Bank, which was showing the wrong time.
"You can never depend on it."
"Yeah..."
"I need to know the time, because I have a phone call to make."
"Uh huh"
She had come up to me in the middle of the crosswalk and by this time I'd crossed the street, but she kept talking to me.
"Where are you from?"
"Here"
"New York? You seem like you're from somewhere else. Some other state."
I keep walking up the street, and she keeps following me, trailling me by a few feet.
"When's your birthday?"
"October"
"October what?"
"Sixth"
"Libra. My friend's a Libra. My dear brother's birthday is October 1st."
I'm not even trying to respond anymore. It's dusk, like the French say, entre le chien et le loup.
"I haven't seen him for twenty-seven years. He got married twenty-six years ago and the last time I saw him was the year before that. He lives in Nassau. He won't come into the city and I won't go into the country. I thought you were from somewhere else."
I'm starting to get nervous, because we're around the corner from my apartment and I don't want this crazy woman to know where I live. But just in front of the library she stops walking abruptly, like there's an invisible wall only she can see.
I don't know what it is about me, but I've always had this ability to attract the walking wounded, the lost souls. Yesterday, I started talking to a woman, about the architecture of tenement houses. Somehow my art history major at NYU came up.
"Oh!" She said, like I had just revealed my prediliction for eating glass. I was a little taken aback.
"I know how smart you are! Do you know what you learned? I'll tell you what you learned. You learned you how to read people," she said ticking them off on her fingers. "You learned how to look at things, you learned how to analyze people."
"Yeah..." I was dumb. I felt like I was having my palm read.
I thought I had majored in art history because I liked the pretty pictures. I thought I was from here.
"You can never depend on it."
"Yeah..."
"I need to know the time, because I have a phone call to make."
"Uh huh"
She had come up to me in the middle of the crosswalk and by this time I'd crossed the street, but she kept talking to me.
"Where are you from?"
"Here"
"New York? You seem like you're from somewhere else. Some other state."
I keep walking up the street, and she keeps following me, trailling me by a few feet.
"When's your birthday?"
"October"
"October what?"
"Sixth"
"Libra. My friend's a Libra. My dear brother's birthday is October 1st."
I'm not even trying to respond anymore. It's dusk, like the French say, entre le chien et le loup.
"I haven't seen him for twenty-seven years. He got married twenty-six years ago and the last time I saw him was the year before that. He lives in Nassau. He won't come into the city and I won't go into the country. I thought you were from somewhere else."
I'm starting to get nervous, because we're around the corner from my apartment and I don't want this crazy woman to know where I live. But just in front of the library she stops walking abruptly, like there's an invisible wall only she can see.
I don't know what it is about me, but I've always had this ability to attract the walking wounded, the lost souls. Yesterday, I started talking to a woman, about the architecture of tenement houses. Somehow my art history major at NYU came up.
"Oh!" She said, like I had just revealed my prediliction for eating glass. I was a little taken aback.
"I know how smart you are! Do you know what you learned? I'll tell you what you learned. You learned you how to read people," she said ticking them off on her fingers. "You learned how to look at things, you learned how to analyze people."
"Yeah..." I was dumb. I felt like I was having my palm read.
I thought I had majored in art history because I liked the pretty pictures. I thought I was from here.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The Never-Ending Story
I have now discovered that when I bought my new cell phone two weeks ago, I was also charged for an extended two year contract and a bunch of accessories I neither want or need. Uuuuggghh.
In cheerier less tedious news, I moved into my new apartment. It's fabuuuulous. Pictures to follow.
In cheerier less tedious news, I moved into my new apartment. It's fabuuuulous. Pictures to follow.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Let them eat 401(k)ake
Boy, the NY Times sure likes giving advice. A few weeks ago they had an article about the rise of unpaid internships and their general worthlessness. If it doesn't pay; it doesn't teach you anything, that article proposed. Upon reading this article, at my first real post-grad job, I thought it was bs. I've had both paid and unpaid jobs and internships, and I didn't think how much I took away from the experience had anything to do with how much monetary compensation I received. Besides I've learned tons of great job skills during my internships in college. I can do amazing things with spreadsheets and I've mastered the art of the business casual email. The tasks that I do at my "real job" don't vary greatly from what I did at my "fake jobs," but something fundamental has changed.
In high school I had a job to pay for trips to the mall and cheesecake at the diner. In college I had an on-campus job to make beer money. Now I have to pay for my own rent and food, which in New York, don't come cheap.
At all my previous jobs, I tried to ignore the office politics. My mantra was not to get involved in personalities. I could act like I was above the fray, because I wasn't a part of it. My internship would end at the end of the semester or the summer, and it's almost impossible to get fired from a part-tiime job as long as you're a warm body. But the "real world" is different. All of sudden it matters if people like you, and if they're spreading rumours behind your back. It's like being back in the cafeteria in high school.
Thankfully the New York Times also has savings and retirement adivce to help the recent college grad actually escape the soul-sucking gray cubicle. The first two suggestions are prosaic, at best. Drink the sludge at the office, instead of getting Starbucks, and quit smoking, not because it's bad for you, but because it's expensive. (Although the lung cancer will keep you from worrying about the state of your 401(k), since you probably wont' make it to retirement age.)
But my favorite peice of advice is to sock $325 away in your 401(k) every month. After paying my rent and utilities, I have $521 to pay for cable, internet, phone, groceries, clothes, cleaning supplies, toiletries, laundry, dry cleaning, transportation, and grooming. Forget restaurants, bars, concerts, museums, furniture, books, music, pets and travelling, Wait wasn't this the same newspaper that just told me I'm a complete ignoramous with no knowledge of global affairs or cultures, and I should get dear old mom and dad to bankroll the Grand Tour?
In high school I had a job to pay for trips to the mall and cheesecake at the diner. In college I had an on-campus job to make beer money. Now I have to pay for my own rent and food, which in New York, don't come cheap.
At all my previous jobs, I tried to ignore the office politics. My mantra was not to get involved in personalities. I could act like I was above the fray, because I wasn't a part of it. My internship would end at the end of the semester or the summer, and it's almost impossible to get fired from a part-tiime job as long as you're a warm body. But the "real world" is different. All of sudden it matters if people like you, and if they're spreading rumours behind your back. It's like being back in the cafeteria in high school.
Thankfully the New York Times also has savings and retirement adivce to help the recent college grad actually escape the soul-sucking gray cubicle. The first two suggestions are prosaic, at best. Drink the sludge at the office, instead of getting Starbucks, and quit smoking, not because it's bad for you, but because it's expensive. (Although the lung cancer will keep you from worrying about the state of your 401(k), since you probably wont' make it to retirement age.)
But my favorite peice of advice is to sock $325 away in your 401(k) every month. After paying my rent and utilities, I have $521 to pay for cable, internet, phone, groceries, clothes, cleaning supplies, toiletries, laundry, dry cleaning, transportation, and grooming. Forget restaurants, bars, concerts, museums, furniture, books, music, pets and travelling, Wait wasn't this the same newspaper that just told me I'm a complete ignoramous with no knowledge of global affairs or cultures, and I should get dear old mom and dad to bankroll the Grand Tour?
Friday, June 09, 2006
Miss Embarrassed
I actually had this conversation with a little boy today.
"What's your name?"
"Miss Baritz"
"Miss Embarrassed? Do they call you that because you're embarrassed?"
"No, that's not my name."
"Can I have your number?"
Fin.
"What's your name?"
"Miss Baritz"
"Miss Embarrassed? Do they call you that because you're embarrassed?"
"No, that's not my name."
"Can I have your number?"
Fin.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Phone Follies, Part Two
If I have learned anything from this experience, its not to lose a phone in a cab. At least I'm not this guy.
When I called 311, a lovely group of people who will listen to you bitch but not do anything in anyway to help you, I filed a police report and was given the numbers of the two police precincts in New York that collect items lost in cabs. One of which never answers the phone and the other which never seems to have any lost items in their possession
On Saturday, certain I would never see my phone again (RIP) I headed to the Verizon store to see how I could replace it. The customer service rep had told me very helpfully and completely falsely that sometimes Verizon stores carried reburished phones and would give them away to replace lost phones.
First stop, the Verizon store on Union Square, where I was not received like a customer, but more like a crackhead or a subway rat.
"We don't do that," the girl in the store said. "I don't know of any stores in New York that do that," she answered when I asked about a refurbished phone. So what could I do? "You'd have to buy full retail," she said and continued to stand there. How do you expect to sell anyone anything if you don't show them any merchandise?
Second stop, the Verizon store in Circuit City on the other side of Union Square where I was completely ignored for a full half-hour and then told that I would get a better deal on a phone if I went to an independent wireless store. The rational? "the phone service providers don't make money off the phones, only the service." Which wold seem to support Verizon having better priced phones over Sketchy Cellphones down the street, but whatever, but I was soaked and exhausted, so I head off to 14th and 6th.
Third stop, Sketchy Cellphones (name changed to protect complete assholes.) I found the same model as my lost cellphone and was told that it would cost $200.
"But it retails for $180," I said and turned to leave.
"Okay, I'll give it to you for $170."
So I bought it, making losing the cellphone only the second dumbest thing I had done last week. Sketchy asked me I could pay for it in cash, even going so far as to tell me to go across the street to the atm and get cash and he'd waive the tax. While swiping my credit card, he actually answered his phone and had a conversation about how he was living rent free in his apartment by renting out the other rooms. Who would want to live with this douche bag?
When I took it out of the box, there were scratches on it and when I got home, I discovered that the phone was assigned another number and had numbers already stored in it. Plus, I couldn't activate the phone.
The receipt helpfully said no refunds. But I went back to Sketchy, where I was confronted by Muffin-Top. Whose solution was to call Verizon and let me talk to customer service again.
"Look, I don't want this phone. It's used, it has someone else's number on it and it doesn't work with my plan. Take it back."
"You can have a store credit."
"No I want a refund."
At this point I was shaking with rage. I've never been antagonized by store employees before but these gems came out of Muffin-Top's mouth:
"So what, you're just going to stand there for hours?" When I told her I wasn't leaving without a refund.
"Are you just going to stare at me like that?" When I decided to end a volley of "I want a refund." "We don't do that."
"I can't just take money out of the cash register. I have my own expenses." That's not how a refund works, retard.
Finally when I kept demanding she take the phone back, she tossed it off the counter and scribbled a "store credit" on the receipt.
It took a lot of self-restraint not to yell, "you're a fucking piece of shit" when I walked out the door.
I called my credit card to stop payment on the charge, but was told I'd have to wait because the charge was still pending.
Monday though I was on the war path. I filed complaints with both the Better Business Bureau and the NYC Department of Consumer Affairs, both of which offered consolation and a promise to fight the good fight. You're going down, Sketchy.
(Also, the second person I talked to at Verizon gave me a discount on a new cellphone, so I'm back in business. Call Me!)
When I called 311, a lovely group of people who will listen to you bitch but not do anything in anyway to help you, I filed a police report and was given the numbers of the two police precincts in New York that collect items lost in cabs. One of which never answers the phone and the other which never seems to have any lost items in their possession
On Saturday, certain I would never see my phone again (RIP) I headed to the Verizon store to see how I could replace it. The customer service rep had told me very helpfully and completely falsely that sometimes Verizon stores carried reburished phones and would give them away to replace lost phones.
First stop, the Verizon store on Union Square, where I was not received like a customer, but more like a crackhead or a subway rat.
"We don't do that," the girl in the store said. "I don't know of any stores in New York that do that," she answered when I asked about a refurbished phone. So what could I do? "You'd have to buy full retail," she said and continued to stand there. How do you expect to sell anyone anything if you don't show them any merchandise?
Second stop, the Verizon store in Circuit City on the other side of Union Square where I was completely ignored for a full half-hour and then told that I would get a better deal on a phone if I went to an independent wireless store. The rational? "the phone service providers don't make money off the phones, only the service." Which wold seem to support Verizon having better priced phones over Sketchy Cellphones down the street, but whatever, but I was soaked and exhausted, so I head off to 14th and 6th.
Third stop, Sketchy Cellphones (name changed to protect complete assholes.) I found the same model as my lost cellphone and was told that it would cost $200.
"But it retails for $180," I said and turned to leave.
"Okay, I'll give it to you for $170."
So I bought it, making losing the cellphone only the second dumbest thing I had done last week. Sketchy asked me I could pay for it in cash, even going so far as to tell me to go across the street to the atm and get cash and he'd waive the tax. While swiping my credit card, he actually answered his phone and had a conversation about how he was living rent free in his apartment by renting out the other rooms. Who would want to live with this douche bag?
When I took it out of the box, there were scratches on it and when I got home, I discovered that the phone was assigned another number and had numbers already stored in it. Plus, I couldn't activate the phone.
The receipt helpfully said no refunds. But I went back to Sketchy, where I was confronted by Muffin-Top. Whose solution was to call Verizon and let me talk to customer service again.
"Look, I don't want this phone. It's used, it has someone else's number on it and it doesn't work with my plan. Take it back."
"You can have a store credit."
"No I want a refund."
At this point I was shaking with rage. I've never been antagonized by store employees before but these gems came out of Muffin-Top's mouth:
"So what, you're just going to stand there for hours?" When I told her I wasn't leaving without a refund.
"Are you just going to stare at me like that?" When I decided to end a volley of "I want a refund." "We don't do that."
"I can't just take money out of the cash register. I have my own expenses." That's not how a refund works, retard.
Finally when I kept demanding she take the phone back, she tossed it off the counter and scribbled a "store credit" on the receipt.
It took a lot of self-restraint not to yell, "you're a fucking piece of shit" when I walked out the door.
I called my credit card to stop payment on the charge, but was told I'd have to wait because the charge was still pending.
Monday though I was on the war path. I filed complaints with both the Better Business Bureau and the NYC Department of Consumer Affairs, both of which offered consolation and a promise to fight the good fight. You're going down, Sketchy.
(Also, the second person I talked to at Verizon gave me a discount on a new cellphone, so I'm back in business. Call Me!)
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