A few demands for the parents of the world

I like little kids. I think they are cute and smart and fun to talk to. Whenever I see a 3 y/o toddling down the sidewalk, it makes me smile and dream about the day when I will have one of my own.

But lately I've been hardpressed to call upon this fondness when trapped in confined places with children. A recent lunch at a pizzeria had me rolling my eyes and cursing under my breath because I was so annoyed with the little kids sitting next to me. My manners left me - I actually stared the dad in the eye and shot him Angel of Death daggers because his youngins were bothering me so badly.

I left before I had the chance to throw a highchair through the soda cooler, and the walk back to work gave me time to ponder my sudden aversion. Had New York jaded me so? This post is a bit cliche in the fact that nearly every single 20-something living in this town despises children; it's almost a prerequisite to move here. But I soon realized that the kids weren't the problem - it was the fucking parents! So here I am, a single 20-something with no children, detailing what parents should and should not do to make my life easier and more enjoyable.


1. QUIT BADGERING YOUR KIDS

Since when did little kids start getting interrogated like hostile teenagers? Whenever I'm sitting down at a dining establishment and some mom or dad has hauled along their toddler, the parent won't stop talking, when clearly the kid is preoccupied with picking their nose or tearing up a napkin or drawing on the wall or some other innocuous thing in silence. Their child has found something interesting and quiet to do, but the parent drones on and on - "How are you feeling? What do you want to do today? How many juiceboxes did you drink today? Tell me your ABC's -" And the kid says nothing, just concentrates on their activity. But the parent pursues the conversation, and even seems to be taken aback that their child doesn't want to talk to them. God, JUST SHUTUP WOULD YOU? Give your child - and me - a moment of peace.


2. STOP GIVING YOUR KIDS SO MANY OPTIONS

A common misconception in life is that having lots of options is enriching. Sometimes it is, like when choosing a color to paint your nails, but not so much when you repeatedly ask your kid, "What do you want to eat?" within my earshot. I know it's just a pizza parlor, it's not like they have decide what vintage wine would pair best with their glazed duck, but demanding that a 3 y/o choose what toppings they have on their pizza is fucking insane! It's insane because that kid probably doesn't know a pepperoni from a sausage, or a pepper from an onion, and don't swear to me up and down that your child knows "because they are gifted" - they aren't. Maybe they are, but you can't claim that just because one time they pointed to a picture of a mushroom and said, "pizza."

Another reason it is insane is because toddlers don't like any toppings on their pizza; hell, I ate cheese pizza only until I was sixteen years old. So parents please, do us all (me) a favor and order the simplest item for your child, or offer them two choices, both of them simple and common so you won't have to badger your kids them for a decision. This will make for an optimal experience while I am forced to share a public space with your family.


3. CONTROL YOUR GODDAMN CHILDREN

I feel like this complaint is on every list ever written about the problems singles have with other people's kids, but it's always on said lists because the parents have yet to learn.

I was walking my dog from the park one day when a little boy, four-years-old I'd say, ran off his front stoop and followed me around the corner. His mother didn't stop him, so I got worried and slowed down my pace, afraid that he would follow me too far and get lost (it takes a village, people. Oh ha, totally unintended pun!) As the little boy followed, he ran up and started to hit my dog on the back. "Don't do that," I warned, "he doesn't like that." When my dog turned around to see what rude jerk was hitting him, the little boy ran away. But 30 seconds later he was behind me again, this time with a stick in his hand, which he proceeded to hit my dog with. This kid must be the next Jeffrey Dahmer, since he was so obsessed with abusing my dog.

"No, don't do that," I told him, trying not to be a total bitch but at the same time furious that his mother thought it appropriate to let her little freak of nature wreak havoc on me and my dog. My dog turned around, and I didn't hold him back - he lurched at the boy, thus sending him running home. That was the last we saw of him.

Parents: I understand that you think your child is special and that they should be allowed to roam wild so as to find their unique talents. I also know that you believe that we as adults should understand that for a child to fully develop, we need to be understanding when the child throws tantrums at the post office and uses your keys to draw SpongeBob on the side of our car. But what you think is not normal, so your opinion is moot. Therefore, stop raising monsters. I shouldn't have to deal with your uncontrollable child now, and I certainly don't want to pay for your uncontrollable child when he or she ends up in the state pen.

I'd blog if I could...

I know it's taking me forever - 4 days, as Vern pointed out - for me to post, but I have a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and I'm experiencing bouts of painful diarrhea that cause me to run to the bathroom while watching Bravo. I attempted to write, but my head is too whoozy from all the DayQuil I've been popping. So bear with me, folks. If you're good, I'll write about the experience complete with pictures of my toilet droppings.

Good Night and Good Luck,

AndSheWas

PS Who gets sick in the middle of August??? I think this has something to do with all the rain at APW...

VIP tickets are for suckers

This past Sunday the bf and I went to All Points West, a music festival headlined by Jack Johnson and Radiohead. My bf is friends with the bodyguard of a very famous set of sisters, so he was able to procure us two VIP passes free of charge. When we went to the venue on Sunday and picked up our tickets, we were ecstatic to find the them waiting for us, as if we had hobnobbed with Jack Johnson and his manager ourselves! Maybe that's what was in store for us! Our heads (well, mine) swirled with glitzy thoughts of watching the artists perform ten feet away while standing in the wings of the stage.

But that was not what happened...at all. These VIP tickets, which cost $50 more than the general admission tickets, weren't shit. Or were shit. And here I am to expound the reasons why the extra price is totally not worth the "perks" promised by VIP tickets.

Nevermind that it started raining as soon as we got through the VIP entrance, which had a marginally shorter line than where the general admission peeps waited. Confused as to where the VIP section was, where there was free champagne and hors d' oeuvres waiting for us, we slipped into the nearest beer garden. But it's hard to drink beer while being pelted with globules of water, so we draped ourselves in $2 garbage bags and went in search of the other VIPers. Where WAS the section designated for the elite? Where would we find shelter from the rain while conversating with Cat Power and her roadies? Where would I chat up other celebs partaking in the festival?

We asked a worker where the VIP section was, and he pointed to somewhere in the distance. Our gaze followed his finger...many, many yards away from the stages and festivities sat a remote cluster of tents, closed off from the public.

That doesn't make sense, I thought. Why would the artists trudge all the way from the stage to the far-removed VIP area? I don't even see the tour busses. But we walked over to what we presumed the promised land.

The "promised land," we soon found, consisted of three cramped tents brimming with VIPers seeking shelter from the weather. The few couches alotted were piled with people lounging, bored by being forced to watch the concert from a couple of monitors. In lieu of champagne and hor d'oeuvres, there was a BBQ vendor charging $17 for a pulled pork sandwich and $4 for a 20 oz. bottle of Pepsi. Though it was freezing, a shoddy AC bathed us in chilly air. Because we had arrived to the VIP section late, we were left with no room to sit.

I was shocked. THIS was what an extra $50 afforded you? A few rickety tents with our own food vendor charging exhorbitant prices? Since the tickets were free, I was able to roll with it, but I couldn't help but think what fools the other patrons must have felt like.

I thought maybe the VIP stages would make up for the dismal VIP section, so we waited out the rain, then ventured back to the festival. We came to find that the VIP stages were nothing but an elevated platform roughly 50' x 40' in size, 40 feet back from the stage. And it was packed. At maybe 5 feet higher than the ground, it didn't afford us that much better of a view.

So we watched a bit of Ben Harper's set from the platform, then traipsed back to the VIP area to use the bathroom (I will say, the lines for the toilet were pretty short). We got back to the stage area as Jack Johnson was performing, and the bf wanted to try out the VIP stage again. But just as we approached it, a worker said, "No more! It's full!"

Wha-whaaaat? We, who had presumably paid at total of $140 per ticket for one day of festival, would not even be aloud in the VIP section, which we had presumably paid for?????? My bf was livid - it was total bullshit! That moment effectively jaded us both on VIP ticket-holding; it's for suckers.

Oh and also: the beer system was bogus. It worked like this: There were four beer gardens, removed from the stages, and you could only drink your beer in the garden. Once you presented your ID to the workers, they marked your hand with a purple Sharpie and wrapped an orange band around your wrist with 5 tabs hanging off of it. The 5 tabs signified the five beers you were allowed to drink while at the festival - for every beer you purchased, they ripped off a tab. Once you'd had your five beers (and what beer drinker WOULDN'T imbibe five beers at an all-day festival?), that was it. If you were lucky enough to find a worker sympathetic to your tab-less plight, they would sell you another wristband for $20. Yeah, fucking classy.

But fuck you, greedy festival workers, my bf was sly and found a way around your bullshit rules: He tore his empty wristband off and scrubbed the permanent marker off his hand. When he went to procure another band, the bartender questioned why his skin was raw and red, but with little to prove my bf was putting one over on him, he gave him another band. Still, we had to pay $7 a beer.

Also: the festival workers were ratting out the ganja smokers! I saw one kid get pulled from the crowd and escorted out by 5 state troopers because he was puffing on a joint. I'm not a big mary jane connoisseur, but even I thought the kid was written a bad check. You should feel safer at an outdoor music festival than in your own home to smoke some reefer.

In all, what saved us from being totally pissed off at All Points West was the fact that our tickets were free (and Jack Johnson's set was wonderful). But when it comes to my own money, I will never buy VIP tickets, and I will never go to the APW festival again. Festivals are nothing but corporate greed these days, anyhow. I wish it was 1969 so I could go to Woodstock and roll around in the mud with hippies.

Though your music is brilliant, your greed is ruining my fond memories!

"How much money does Led Zeppelin need that people imagine a shitty car whizzing by when they hear their songs?" - Trent Reznor

Ok, that's not an exact quote, it's the gist of what I remember reading in a 2002 issue of Rolling Stone. It was such a funny and poignant comment that I remembered it six years later, and I wanted to use it for this post, even if I am committing some form of libel.

Because I am cheap and poor, I still use an old-school iPod shuffle, these days available for $20 bucks in the Apple store bargain bin. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in size (memory vs. weight, sillies!) Also, without a screen to tell me what song is playing, every song is like a fresh, Christmas-morn gift. Morose Beck followed by groovy Dead is like bawling your eyes out at a good movie, and immediately afterwards seeing a skateboarder crack his nuts on a guardrail.

So my iPod constantly surprises me with music that I unintentionally uploaded to it. This was the case with INXS's "New Sensation," a poppy tune from a much-loved 80's band. When it played on my iPod today, I was at first elated and energized, but the feeling quickly left me - instead of imagining Michael Hutchence's beautiful visage crooning the lyrics, all I could think about was a fucking Bally's commercial.

People sweating on stair-steppers, be-spandexed trainers giving the thumbs-up, and lots of close-ups on abnormally taut abs - ahhhh! The image was more visceral than the actual music video. I had to skip the song; listening to it was actually churning my stomach.

And what a fucking shame. When I was little, my mother's greatest loves were cleaning the house and jamming out to INXS (my father could rot with his tools for all she cared). So we'd grab the mop buckets, crank up the stereo, and let the rockin' songs of INXS guide our soapy rags over the messy counter and dusty bookshelves. Maybe not a noteable memory to some, but an important one to me.

But now that's all been overshadowed by the Bally commercial and INXS's filthy greed. Why'd you do it, INXS? Hutchence has been dead for several years now, so he had nothing to do with the leasing of your rights - would it have never happened if he were still alive?

INXS isn't the only perpetrator to grant some corporate conglomerate the rights to their songs. Here's is a list I compiled SANS INTERNET SEARCH:

The Cars, "Just What I Needed" - granted rights to Circuit City
Heart, "Barracuda" - some car company that's shilling a van
Whoever sang "Fly Like an Eagle" (The Eagles?), "Fly Like an Eagle" - US Postal Service
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" - some car company

Hmmm, can't think of anymore off the top of my head. But there's more, I tell ya!

It's different, though, if a band leases rights to a movie; it doesn't bother me a bit. I guess that's because I regard movies as works of art, and the music is there to stylize the art, not convince me to waste my money on a crappy product...even though movie studios are just as guilty of trying to sell me crap. Hum...

Then again, I have loved - and actually bought - music that I heard from a commercial, like The Greenskeepers "Vagabond," the song used to promote the Liberty City Grand Theft Auto game. Boo-urns to this whole argument - I'm more contradictory than McCain, or the Bible.

Should I just forgive these aging artists for allowing companies to prey upon consumers with their music? Ok, I forgive you, but it doesn't change the fact that when I hear your commercialized tunes on the radio or iPod, I opt not to listen; in fact, I get soured on the other songs in your library, too.

An achievement better than earning a college degree, or losing your v-card

Triumph!

Tonight marks the best accomplishment I have achieved in my adult life thus far. Though it has nothing to do with my career aspirations, money, or romantic life, it is a prime example of the rewards given when you are inexorably diligent.

About a week ago, my computer stopped connecting to the wireless network in my apartment. I waited it out, thinking that the networking problems were a glitch that would fix themselves. Wednesday and Thursday came, and still no ability for my computer to connect to the internet, even after I pulled every connection trick I knew out of my back pocket. My adapter showed signs of connecting on Friday, but my ability to access the internet was intermittent. The weekend arrived, and I left my computer alone, hoping that the router's signal would improve by Sunday night.

That never happened, and tonight it became apparent that the router was dead. And there was no fucking way I was going to endure another www-less night.

Purchasing a new router was the first inclination, but after scoping out prices on my roommate's computer (he still had internet access, since his computer is wired into the internet connection), I decided that wasn't happening - there are more colorful and majestic ways to spend $70, like on the rent, or dinner.

An ethernet cord lay in the spare room. Rather than go out and buy more junky computer equipment, I decided to make lemonade with my means; my "means" also included a ladies hammer and a chisel, as well as little care to what damage I did to my bedroom wall.

I endeavored a la Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption - hammer in the right hand, chisel in the left, I pummeled the plaster around the small hole my cable cord was threaded through. After about 20 minutes with little plaster eroded, I ran to a friend's and borrowed her power drill. The drill worked better, but in a strange twist, it turned out the wall wasn't made of just plaster - seemed there was some kind of wood holding the wall up, and this wood had hulk-like strength.

I persisted. I jabbed and sawed away at the wood, which for all I knew was actually copper plumbing or a beam that was supporting the entire apartment building. But none of that mattered; seriously, I was so obsessed with getting a connection to the internet that I would have taken a sledgehammer to the wall. Sweat dripped from my pits and forehead; my legs cramped from sitting on them for so long; my joints screamed at me as I forced my limbs into twisted positions, crouched behind my and my roommate's desks.

An hour of amateur millwork later, the hole seemed big enough from both sides. It took another hour to thread the damn ethernet cord through it, a job that made me feel very MacGuyver like - I actually used manipulated paper clips to hook the cord and pull it through the wall. But finally, after roughly 2.5 hours of drilling and peering through a dusty, jagged hole in the wall, the cord was swiftly plugged into my computer and the router, and after some minor configuring....TA-MOTHERFUCKING-DA! I sit here detailing my experience for you fine folks via the internet.

In a way, connecting to the internet is just icing on the cake. I'm oddly proud of myself for meeting this obstacle with ingenuity and an unwillingness to give up. I could have thrown my hands up at any moment, traipsed up to Circuit City and slammed $70 on the counter for a new router, and lived on Ramen for the next two weeks. I've never been especially proficient at handywork or using powertools, and the notion that I was effectively costing us our security deposit was always in the back of my mind. But lookee here! There are few times in life when you take on a project you are ill-equipped to accomplish, yet your sojourn proves fruitful - as far as I'm concerned, this is one of those times. Will I ever feel this glorious again? All I gotta say is that my firstborn better be pritty special if he/she ever wants to live up to my most awesomest accomplishment yet.

Can someone explain the mechanics of oatmeal to me?

The other night I decided to have some honeynut oatmeal for dinner.

After dumping one packet in a bowl, it was apparent that one packet would not suffice. So I poured in another.

The cooking instructions called for 2/3 cup of milk (or water, if you're lame). Now it didn't say 2/3 cup per packet, but it seemed obvious that if you were making two packets of oatmeal, then you'd double the necessary ingredients labeled on the package.


2/3 cup + 2/3 cup = 4/3 cup, or 1 and 1/3 cup. Right? I'm no Pythagoras, but basic fractions are not beyond me. So I poured in just one full cup of milk, since I like my oatmeal thick, and popped it in the microwave.

What I was presented with when the mike timer sounded was a soupy mess akin to pig slop.

I mean, I still ate it - I'm not the most discerning when it comes to what goes in my mouth (That's what she said! - hey-o! - ba-dum-ba!) - but wtf? My homemaker skills are bad enough as it is without Quaker Oats giving me shitty cooking directions.

All my life I've been told to use common sense, even after people (my mom) told me I have none. My common sense told me to double the amount of milk if I was making two packets. But that was wrong.



Do I have horrible logic, or is Quaker Oats run by nazis? My common sense is telling me there's truth in the latter part of that statement.

If only he weren't a scientologist...

Do any Beck fans read this blog? I'm a big Beck fan, despite the fact that an annoying ex-boyfriend, for whom I only have disdainful memories, introduced me to him.

Ok, he didn't introduce me - show me a person who's never heard Loser, and I'll show you my tits - but the first time I ever heard Sea Change (one of the best albums ever made), it was because of my ex.

I've been trying to build up my cd collection. Some may say compact disks are an ancient format, but I want a tangible form of music to pass onto my children. How do you share a moment with your child over an MP3 downloaded from iTunes? Also, the inserts, brimming with lyrics, liner notes, and artwork - the only thing that can match what you get with a cd is a record, and I can't download that to my computer and put it on my iPod. So you see...? Cds continue to be relevant in my book.

When I was a kid, I'd sit and go through my parents' modest cd collection, reading all the inserts and delicately studying the cover art (as a deeply religious child, this cover simultaneously confused and titillated me. Oy, if only my eight-year-old self knew the woman I'd become). Their library consisted of a lot of ZZ Top, Robert Palmer, Meatloaf, and Roxette. Eh, maybe they didn't have the best musical tastes, but it nonetheless helped create in me a deep love for music and music trivia (1960-Present. Don't ask me any questions about Handel or John Phillips Sousa).

My point: I like music, a lot, and only after seeing people who are "meh" about it do I realize that a love for music is not a given trait. I attribute part of my music appreciation to the fact that my parents always had something playing on the radio, and cared about it enough to invest in it by buying their preferred artists' work. So I would like to do the same for my children.

That was an ENORMOUS digression. Sorry. The real point of this post is to recommend Beck's new album, Modern Guilt. At this point in Beck's career, I'm convinced he can't disappoint. He's a genius, and who'da thunk? Maybe Loser was genius when it came out, but I don't know, as a seven-year-old it sounded like a silly ditty that used a funny language.

I'm not pretentious enough to try to compare this new Beck album to another artist's oeuvre, nor am I going to pick it apart and lament new Beck vs. old Beck like some Pitchfork-reading douche. I'm just going to say that I like it, and you should check it out:



I'm also recommending MGMT's album Oracular Spectacular.