Served

I probably have no reason to admit this now that it's behind me but here it goes:

For the last month I've waited tables at a Hawaiian fast food restaurant.

Unfortunately, when I say "behind me," I don't mean that it was of my choosing to leave, but instead, I was taken off the schedule. My boss said she gave away my two shifts a week to servers who want to make scooping rice and mac salad "their careers." I hope they all live happily ever after in delusion.

Anywhoo, now that it's over we can all laugh about it, right? Many lifetimes ago I vowed never to wait another table, let alone do so for $25 a night, wearing a bright orange T-shirt and serving soda out of a can. It seems absurd that at 32, I was being bossed around by my 23-year-old coworkers, these same coworkers who'd ask me where I'd previously worked, ones I tried to tell without sounding arrogant or like a pathological liar that I write for the state paper and that I'll be soon graduating with my MFA. I could justify why I took the job (it's the recession, we're all taking crappy jobs to pay the bills; it was temporary until I move; I'd just come back from Hawaii and was nostalgic; I knew I wouldn't run into a single soul I knew there), but ultimately, the whole thing was a lesson in humility.

Here's what else I learned while serving salty meat products for $8 a plate:

1. I still hate haoles. Sure, I'm haole (or white) but when white people are juxtaposed against local Hawaiian people, it becomes very obvious why locals hate whities. Haoles think they know everything, especially haoles in their twenties, whereas locals never assume to know a damn thing. They're from an island for chrissakes. They know they don't know shit. Half of my former coworkers grew up in the islands and had humble positions at the restaurant like cooking and dishwashing. They smiled and showed me where things were; they treated me how they'd want to be treated. My haole coworkers were the servers who told me it was my turn to mop the floors and how I'd sprinkled coconut on the haupia pie the wrong way. This could obviously be a metaphor for how whites end up dominating indigenous people and getting ahead. But when it comes to making the perfect riceball, their ambition is being wasted. Haoles simply need to relax.

2. The perfect scoop of rice is all in the firm touchdown--when the scooper meets the plate or to-go container--before the release of the handle.

3. Free food shuts people up.

4. As much as I'd hate to admit it, mindless work from the hours of 5-9 is kinda the perfect break for someone who sits in front of her laptop, mulling over her life every other hour of the day.

5. Eating Kahula pig never gets old. Neither does mac salad. (Reason #3 also applies to grumpy servers who get shift meals.)

6. Every once in a while, you need to feel rejected by something you never really wanted. Puts into perspective who you think you are.

7. This will surely make great fodder for an essay one day.

Zen

For a brief, delusional period yesterday, I fancied myself one of those rare people who could sit alone on a park bench and actually take in the scenery. I didn't glance at my phone (I didn't even have it on me), nor did I peruse any reading material. Instead, I watched a couple split a burrito and a large woman wearing a sandwich board warn passersby about the dangers of the flu shot. I was ready to congratulate myself on my five minutes of purposeless observation, when I put a cigarette to my lips and exhaled a puff of smoke. That's when I realized I was no different than the other eaters, talkers and smartphoners who couldn't find a reason to sit alone and do nothing.

Worse than this is the 2.01 tendency to be doing two or three somethings at once. When I'm walking down the street, I cannot simply be walking. I have to have my earbuds in. I'm 32. If someone asked me when I was eight if I'd still be listening to my walkman on thrice daily basis when I was 32, I'd think he was crazy. I'd also think 32 was only a short ride away from my grave.

Also extinct: The art of cooly waiting at the bar alone. The company of a stiff drink is no longer enough. Guys, girls, parents even, have to be texting someone, or pretending to text someone, or playing a game on their iPhone. When I'm alone at a bar, I purposely stare off into middle space, concentrating really hard on looking cool with nothing in my hands. It's rather exhausting, really.

My newish, sometimes smoking habit is the closest tool I have to putting me in the moment. Sad, I know. But I think smoking is completely underrated. Which brings me to another benefit of lighting up: since people tend to look down on smokers these days, no one will come near you. You really are all alone in the middle of a wide, open world.

Retrograde

After spending the summer documenting my observations of the East Coast, I now see my own Portland, Oregon, neighborhood with fresh eyes.

I live in an area of the city dubbed Nob Hill. It is in the Northwest quadrant, known to most as the uppety and probably the most expensive of the five quadrants (in Pdx, a quad = 5). My apartment is a skip away from the posh condo pocket called the Pearl, and minutes away from the fancy, centuries-old mansions in Hillside above the glorious rose gardens at Forest Park. Where I live on 21st Avenue, there are probably more bars and restaurants within an 8-block stretch than any other area in Portland. Two streets up from me is 23rd, or "Trendy Third," which was once Portland's premiere shopping district.

Once is the operative word.

It's time to rethink these nicknames. There's a Gap, a Levi's and a Paper Source on Trendy Third. Granted 21st's restaurant row has a handful of really good, really expensive restaurants but the ones that are within the Regular Portlander's budget (i.e. tacos and Thai takeout) aren't memorable and are pathetically un-ethnic. But these days, what seems most preposterous in relation to the neighborhood's supposed shi-shiness are the residents. There's nothing snooty about them. (Btw, let me mention how ironic it is that I'm just now noticing who lives here. While I don't get paid to blog, I do get paid to write about the goings on in my neighborhood. It is actually in my job description.)

Lately, when I wander around my hood during the day, what I see are early twenty-somethings that looked like they just got off Godsmack's tour bus--the bus for roadies and crew, mind you. The one that picked up these good ol' American slackers in northern Michigan or a suburb outside of Chicago and brought them straight to the dark, sketchy Marathon Taverna here on Burnside to drink High Life and play video poker. Everyone in my neighborhood has this early-2000 rock look about them, complete with that still-slightly-awkward-in-your-own-skin trace of adolescence. They wear a selection of less offensive T-shirts from Hot Topic and jeans that are ill-fitting, held up by studded belts. They sport wavy hair (longer for guys, shorter for girls; the more coiffed chicks have chunky black-versus-blonde highlights), and they always have a cigarette in hand. Or a dog.

Your typical couple: Guy in varying fades of black, some band logo on his T-shirt, backwards cap, sneakers; girl with chunk of blue in her hair, some naughty or supposedly clever saying on her baby tee; both of them very, very white.

The alterna-sporty look circa '94: A jersey, pleated white mini skirt and knee-high socks.

But then of course, these are the people who don't have real day jobs like me. For all I know, this could just be what college kids look like these days: outdated versions of what I looked like when I was a displaced freshman. (Note: PSU is nearby and if I were moving here from a small town, I too would think the words "Nob Hill" sound exciting.)

At night, however, it's harder to judge who actually lives on 21st or 23rd. Most who frequent the bars in my hood, especially during the weekend, have come from the bridges (ghetto Gresham) and tunnels (yuppie Beaverton). They all look like they're trying too hard, which is the exact opposite of the day crowd.

Which brings me back to the reputation of the Northwest. If the westside is supposed to be more "city" (in other words, it includes downtown), then the cool kids will tell you that the east is more laid back, honest, or "real" (in other words, cheaper, somewhat bohemian and spread out). However, I realize now that what makes the east more real isn't that my westside hood is pretentious. The guys in my neighborhood haven't changed their lip piercings and Camel cigarette tastes since 1992. What makes the eastside--the region dotted with hipster plaid and retro reading glasses--more real is that having a too-cool-for-school attitude really is what Portland's all about.

Show

I like cushy seats and audible conversations so I don't see as many live music as I used to. However, I did go to two shows recently. 

Because its been over 15 years since I started going to concerts, everything that was in style back then (like floral babydoll dresses and baggy plaid) is back in style again, and all the things that never go out of style like pubescent body odor, jackass heckling and testosterone were also still in tact. 

However, when comparing my then (i.e. my concert-going youth in Hawaii, a random stew of whatever 90s punk, ska and alternative acts made their way to an island) to my now (the free, all ages Man Man concert I went to the other day at East River Park on a much larger island called Manhattan), a few things stand out: 

The Pit 

Similarities: Somehow there's always a cloud of dust above the pit, like Pigpen in Peanuts, regardless if people are moshing in dirt or on pavement like they're doing here. 

Differences: In Hawaii, a lot of times moshers were grunts so these bulky Navy guys with crew cuts and steel-toe boots had a lot more aggression to get out than gawky emo kids wearing shirts that say "Broke is the new black." 

The "Music Moves Me" Dancer

Similarities: There's always that weird girl in the corner who flails her arms and gets into her own groove, acting as though she is the only one in the room, while everyone else is acting like rowdy, careless drunks.

Differences: In the 90s, she was more goth and pretended to shun the attention. At Man Man, a band that wears neon war paint and plays the kazoo and the xylophone, she is hula hooping. 

The Dweebs That Do a Poor Job of Pretending to Belong: 

Similarities: Being a social misfit in a group of social misfits isn't as cool as it sounds. 

Differences: In Hawaii, the grunts would almost fit into this category because even though they could kick all of our asses, no one liked them (except a few dominatrix friends I knew). However, in this day and age, as exemplified by the hula hooping girl, we have entered some wonky territory of nerd cool, so in theory, the hacky sack players that gathered by Man Man's last song could reasonably "belong." Just not in my book. To me, a circle of dudes gently kicking around a bean bag pouch is just always going to look plain sad. 

Disgrace

I love Barbie. I don't care if that makes me a girly girl, some anti-feminist throwback or the sole reason why American women have body issues. Growing up, I wanted to be just like Barbie. She was hot.

Last night, however, as I perused the massive Toys R Us in Times Square, I was a little disappointed in Barbie Land. First of all, there wasn't much selection (and some weird correlation to Thumbelina), and the selection that they did have was rather peculiar.

The Highlights:

Jersey Barbie - Okay, this is actually Malibu Barbie, circa 1971, but check out the orange tan! The see-thru, matching lounge ensemble! The obvious peroxide job! Give the woman some heavy gold baubles and a few of those babies from below.

Williamsburg Barbie - Again, another vintage Barbie, but vintage is oh-so appropriate for W'burg! I think I saw one of these mesh rompers on the L train yesterday. And she even comes with an extra metallic lycra ensemble in case she can't make the L back in time for a quick evening change. American Apparel couldn't have designed a shorter, better fitting A-line.

The Lowlights:

Barbie has made some poor career choices. New and from the "I Can Be A..." Collection:

Pet Sitter. (She can also be a pet boutique owner.)

Host of a TV Cooking Show.

Baby Doctor, not to be confused with Newborn Baby Doctor, which is also available.

While I'm happy that at least this Barbie has a degree, just about every career fun-pack comes with a set of children or pets. See "I Can Be A Soccer Coach" or a "Sea World Employee.") I am disturbed by this not necessarily because I'm turning into a bra burner in my old age (really though, is pet sitter the new preschool teacher and baby doctor the new nurse?), but because if Barbie is indeed beautiful and hot shouldn't she be at least using those assets to do something cool? I mean, cooking host? What girl wants to be Rachel Ray? How about host of a super catty model competition, or how about a reality show contestant who weasels her way to the top by manipulating men and alliances with her looks and underrated cleverness? She "can" at least strap on a guitar and manage her own rock band for chrissakes.

The 80s: Barbie's glory days

Pop

I knew this would happen: Living a year and half without television has made me dumber. I felt like a complete imbecile last weekend when my brother, a 43-year-old executive with an MBA from Stanford, schooled me on the premise of Gossip Girl. Sure, I read US Weekly every now and then, but I practically have no context for Katy Perry and I'm not sure whether the Jonas Brothers are part of the High School Musical squad or if they're Menudo 2.9. 

So I enlisted the help of my aforementioned 13-year-old niece and my 10-year-old nephew to help me uncover the answer to every pop culture question I've been too lazy to Wikipedia.

This is what I learned:

Lil Wayne is the shit. Even when he raps with a white guy.

T.I. is not.

I see through Lady Gaga’s "poker face," i.e. her Cher mask, complete with a gay dance anthem, Vegas showgirl weave and leather bodysling (ala "If I Could Turn Back Time"). Underneath, she is a less interesting fame whore than Lily Allen in disco drag.

Mad TV can be funny, thanks to a lanky, blushing manchild named Stuart and a hood rat named Bon Qui Qui.

No one is actually watching TV anymore. Instead, they're on YouTube watching millionaire teenage web superstars like this guy:

Which brings me to my final lesson, or revelation, the one my niece and nephew were too kind to say aloud, but instead let me figure out on my own: I'm old. My pop culture ignorance has nothing to do with my cable TV disadvantage. I'm just out of touch. Which reminds me of something else I learned from my young gurus: Those damn annoying Facebook quizzes (What kind of moron are you? Which city should you be castrated in?) are indeed made for a middle school kids. Yup, the same people who dictate which country you should live in also tell you which Pokeman you should be. So may I be so bold as to ask my fellow old folks to pass on this knowledge to their own friends and high school acquaintances who need a misspelled quiz to tell them their aura color? Embarrass them and spare us all from the non-interesting updates, please. Thanks. Class dismissed. Now back to my antiquated playlist on iTunes and my admitted Facebook compulsion.  

Hope

Meet my 13-year-old niece Ali.

She is why I believe in the youth of America.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Last year for English class, she wrote a research paper on the history of metal. (Her bibliography included a VH1 documentary.) In this paper, she referenced the term "sleaze metal." Having written numerous pieces about glam metal, hair metal, butt rock and the like, I was giddy to add sleaze metal to my vernacular (even ignoring my reflex to debate its authenticity) and was compelled to use it immediately, and in any and all pieces of future writing, whether appropriate or not. The cherry: According to VH1, my beloved Guns N' Roses falls into this genre. Sleazetastic!

May I present further evidence that Obama isn't the only bright light shining the way for our future generations...

Ali has a poster of Motorhead's Lemmy--in all his gnarly-mole glory--ripped out from Metal Edge and tacked to her wall.

She thinks "90s bands" like Pearl Jam and the Chili Peppers are overrated.

At an age when I was too chicken to dance to crap like "I Wanna Sex You Up" at a school dance (see here), she and her friends will perform a body rockin' routine to a Miley Cyrus song for the school talent show (she likes the beat and doesn't care if everyone thinks Hanna Montana is lame). Then, she'll pick up her guitar for an encore of "Paint It Black."  

She has a pair of everyday-wear Chuck Taylors and a dressy pair that she hasn't doodled on.

Her favorite guitarist is sleaze metalist Slash.

While all my girlfriends over the age of 30 are pining after Robert Pattinson in Twlight, citing that his character's intense devotion to his girlfriend is the stuff of teenage romantic fantasies, Ali tells me that he's a terrible actor.

We played Rock Band for two hours and she humored me when I belted "Hungry Like the Wolf."

Okay, sure, her biggest crush is Pete Wentz, but when I was 11, I made my mom take me to see George Michael when he came through town on his Faith tour. (I thought his five o'clock shadow was rugged. I also though Kip Winger's eight o'clock shadow was rugged. Hell, I still think Prince is the sexiest man alive.) I'm not one to judge androgynous elfkins.

Shakin

I seem to instigate or attend more dance parties now that I'm over 30 than I did at whatever age it was appropriate to stand around in a circle and have your friends, one by one, jump in the middle and essentially forget they're white. Gyrating and body rocking is much more fun when you're older and have a sense of humor. Or you're broke and all you have is free downloaded music, a gut full of High Life and a spacious living room.

Whatever the case, these are the songs I've noted make the best (and sometimes most surprising) dance hits:

5. Crazy in Love - Beyonce - Okay, I think chicks dig this one more than guys do. It starts off so sassy, like you could sashay down a runway to it, or enter a room full of men in uniform, yank one by the collar, and bring him to his knees with a series of "oh, oh, oh, oh, oh-uh huh oh"s. And the sassiness does not stop. Well, until Jay-Z starts rapping. Still, this is a much less threatening dance hit for men to bob along to than say Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back," which, honestly, if embraced, could be the male answer to "Why your love's got me lookin' so crazy right now?"

4. Buffalo Stance - Neneh Cherry - At some point in the party, dancing is not enough. We all have to prove that we know every word to a particular (preferably rap) song that'd be difficult to follow even if the words were written out on a karaoke screen. It becomes a competition of who can get to the chorus without taking a breath and who actually knows the second verse. See also "Bust A Move" or Eminem's "Lose Yourself."

3. I Wanna Sex You Up - Color Me Badd - Every dance party has to have a dose of seventh, eighth or ninth grade nostalgia, just to make us feel better about why we've essentially recreated one of the most humiliating moments of adolescence (a school dance) now that we're better adept to partake in one (we're drunk and don't mind making asses of ourselves). Hell, if we're lucky, other drunken asses in the room may find us charming and we may even get laid by acting like unencumbered idiots. Which is why this song is sort of joke, but not.

* This is another one of these songs that can be easily substituted with Digital Underground's "Humpty Dance," Bel Biv Devoe's "Poison," or Tony Toni Tone's "It Feels Good," etc.

2. The Way You Make Me Feel - Michael Jackson - I once worked with girls who were too young to remember when Michael Jackson wasn't covered in surgical masks and pasty clay. This is tragic. I'd like to think these young ladies are an anamoly because when the rest of the female population hears "Hey pretty baby, with high (g)heels on," they want to get up and strut for even the noseless, glove-wearing asexuals in the room.

* I realize many will disagree on my MJ song choice here. And while I'm willing to agree that "P.Y.T.," "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" and "Smooth Criminal" are also classics, I've noticed that those don't illicit the same response as "The Way You Make Me Feel" does in someone's home. People are too used to hearing the other songs at clubs, and the point of a dance party is rattle someone off the couch with a "holy shit" or "hell yeah," not make them feel they've entered 80s night.

1. All Night Long - Lionel Richie - Well, my friends the time has come. To raise the roof and have some fun. Imagine, we're on an island off of Jamaica, swirling maitais under the stars, doing some sort of fake mambo, or whatever people do to fake calypso music. With one quick jerk of the wrist, you pour the rest of your drink down your throat and throw your head back in laughter because you're going to party, karambu (?), fiesta, forever. Come on and sing along...ALL! NIGHT! LONG! (All Night!) Oh yeah! Whereas Beyonce is unrelenting from the get-go, Lionel builds you up to a climax....one that's ALL NIGHT LONG for chrissakes! It's the kind of chorus that makes even the non-dancers crawl out from the corners of the party to meet in the middle of the dance floor, stack hands and release in a "Go Team Lionel!" (All Night!) Sure, the man's got a creepy dad vibe (or maybe he just kinda looks like my dad) but his pop attack is oh-so-smooth.

Noise

Noise comes up a lot in my writing. I seek loud, musical, buzzing distraction when I want to escape my own head; I absorb sensational disturbances to mask internal ones. For instance, I often put on my iPod to walk three blocks to a boisterous bar because I've been sitting at my desk all day, struggling to admit on the page that I've turned into my mother.

One of the things that's always attracted me to New York is, in fact, noise. But unlike the pretentious noise I succumbed to when I lived in LA--paparazzi flash, celebrity buzz, the jingle of keys given to the valet--NY noise has always seemed more authentic. I romanticized the notion that because one was surrounded by Manhattan's constant chaos--umbrellas clashing down Lexington, the stress of honking cabs, men muttering various languages in front of bodegas--one couldn't help but be aware, alive even, especially as a newcomer. In the only U.S. city that matters, every moment would be The Moment. 

Now that I'm here (okay, I'm only one week in), I have yet to concede my romantic delusions of NY, but now I believe that sometimes noise is just that. Noise.

There's one place I've grown accustomed to quiet--my home. It's my refuge. Currently, I'm staying in a loft where the JMZ trains run one story above me and the tracks block the view of my living room window. 

My view

Alright, so the cheesy part of me loves the sound of trains rushing by every four minutes. ("I am so in NY!" this cheesy part of me boasts.) But I'm also right at a train stop, convenient for traveling, but inconvenient for sleeping. Screeching tires and the recorded voice of "You are on the westbound J train. The next stop is Marcy Avenue. Watch for the closing doors, please," are constants. Although I do admit, it does get a little meditative after awhile.

In a converted loft (under the train in Brooklyn), conversions are made cheaply. I'm convinced that not only the walls in my apartment are made of plywood but so are the walls in the entire building. Apparently one neighbor has a drum set and the another just likes to play Rock Band. On one side of my bedroom wall, my neighbors always seem to either be chatting or cooking bacon, and on the other, I can hear my roommate punching the buttons on her Blackberry, which means that I can also hear every sigh she breathes into the phone and vice versa. Last night, as I lay in bed trying to read (yup, I was home and actually reading), my two roommates had a rant session about their exes after one walked through the door at midnight. "I hate her so much. If she comes back here, I will beat her," one says of the other's ex-girlfriend. About her own failed relationship she adds, "I'm realizing I can be without him. I'm working on my support system. [Phone rings.] Oh wait, I gotta take this. So-and-so just sent me this link on Facebook and maybe I can get into such-and-such for free on Friday."

Nothing against my temporary roommates; they are actually very sweet and accommodating. And living with them here in this apartment is very New York, or very young New York--in a large building with affordable rent in a hip area, surrounded by the sounds of all night partying and trains letting people off at 5 a.m. But my current living situation also serves as a reminder that I'm glad I'm no longer 25. 

Me at 25. Yikes.