rabbit blog Monday, December 15, 2008 IN DOG WE TRUST "This is a farewell kiss, you dog. This is from the widows, the orphans and those who were killed in Iraq." -- Muntadar al-Zaidi, the Iraqi TV reporter who threw his shoes at President Bush at a Baghdad news conference. My Salon column on "Gossip Girl" and "90210" is here, "Dexter" finale wrap-up is here. 11:17 AM Wednesday, December 03, 2008 WEDNESDAY, WEDNESDAY It's cloudy here in LA, which is cause for celebration around these parts. We like clouds. We revel in the sight of an overcast sky in the morning. We like cold weather -- you know, under 75 degrees? "At least it's cold now," people say to each other in passing as the weather turns gray in December. Now if only it would rain. I wrote about Elvis Costello's new show here, and here's this week's "I Like To Watch," loosely centered around the prospect of bailing out Detroit so they can make more shitty cars for decades to come. By the way, I temporarily solved my archive problem (archives from December 2006- December 2008 not showing up in the archive links to the right) by changing the number of posts per page to 50, which spans the gap, sadly. Personally, I'd strongly recommend anything in the archives from 2002. A tumultuous year in my life, therefore a very good year for blogging. Try June. It's a great day to drink coffee. I want some coffee, goddamn it! 6:35 AM Wednesday, November 26, 2008 AIN'T NO USE TO SIT AND WONDER WHY, BABE Dear Rabbit, When you are in love with someone, and you want to marry them (him, in this case, but whatever), and they want to marry you until one day when they end everything, with very little reason and later offer such reasoning as "You need someone who can take care of you" (true) and "I have darkness" (huh?), how long before you stop wanting to call this person and be with him and have his baby even though every fiber of your stupid, stupid brain understands this would be calamitous and that you almost didn't make it out the first time he broke your heart? It's been eight months. That seems like a really long time. Also, he's a homicide detective. Also, he's boyishly handsome. Also, he was a women's studies minor. Also, he does not know who Bob Dylan is, and I'm not shitting you. Actual line from our breakup: "You tried so hard to understand my world, and I'm so sorry. i still don't even know who Bob Dylan is." It would have been hilarious if I hadn't just vomited I was so upset. Also I so badly want to tell you all the million reasons why he's more complicated than what I just explained, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he is not, actually, more complicated. I have a feeling the details are just unusually interesting. So tell me, smart lady: What kind of time am I in for here? And in the meantime, what can I do when I miss him? Because yo, drinking does NOT work. Broken Dear Broken, I'd suggest listening to some Bob Dylan. Why don't you start with this one? It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe It don't matter, anyhow ?An' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe ?If you don't know by now? When your rooster crows at the break of dawn ?Look out your window and I'll be gone? You're the reason I'm travelin' on ?Don't think twice, it's all right It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe? That light I never knowed ?An' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe ?I'm on the dark side of the road? Still I wish there was somethin' you would do or say? To try and make me change my mind and stay ?We never did too much talkin' anyway? So don't think twice, it's all right As you can see, Bob Dylan wouldn't have known who Bob Dylan is, either. Or if Bob Dylan did know who Bob Dylan was, he wouldn't care. Bob Dylan wouldn't care about Bob Dylan, even if Bob Dylan (either one of them) knew how important Bob Dylan (either one of them) was to you. Even if you laughed when you found out that he didn't know who Bob Dylan was, laughed and laughed, and then marveled for a while about what kind of an odd little Hobbit hole you'd have to be hiding in your entire life, to be ignorant to such a basic, fundamental detail of American culture. Even if you sighed and took a sip of your beer and looked at him and thought, "My god, we are so very different and it made you a little depressed, but it also made you want to kiss him, right then and there, that wouldn't change his mind. The fundamental problem here isn't one of simplicity vs. complexity. Bob Dylan is at once very, very complex and very simple. He is a man who can look at a complicated, bewildering world and boil it all down to a few heartbreaking images and archetypes. A hard rain's gonna fall, yes it is, and why? The answer is blowin' in the wind, child. So don't worry your pretty little head over it. He didn't want to talk about the complexity in the world, least of all with a lady friend. He wanted his lady friend to lay, lady, lay, lay across his big brass bed. I ain't lookin' to compete with you, Beat or cheat or mistreat you, Simplify you, classify you, Deny, defy or crucify you. All I really want to do Is, baby, be friends with you. Bob Dylan (the real Bob Dylan) wanted to be friends. He wanted to hang out. Maybe make out. That didn't mean Bob Dylan wasn't complicated. Bob Dylan had darkness. But Bob Dylan recognized that many women need someone who can take care of them, at some emotional, symbolic level anyway. Bob Dylan was too smart and self-aware to think for a second that he was equipped to exert that sort of energy for a woman. Yes, I'm guessing and extrapolating, I'm no Bob Dylan scholar. If I were, would you like me more? No, because I would never, ever waste my time writing this fucking blog. I'd be dissecting some Bob Dylan minutiae instead. So here's the question: If your homicide detective were a Bob Dylan scholar, would you like him more? No, you like him because he's more like Bob Dylan, himself, who would never, ever have dreamed of being a Bob Dylan scholar. Not only isn't your homicide detective likely to take care of any woman or study Bob Dylan or discuss the complicated nature of the differences between you, he absolutely refuses to even investigate anything about you. You're incredibly curious about him and his world, because he's so different. Is he curious about you and your world? No. He likes your smile, enjoys the sex, thinks you're smart, can't believe he landed a babe like you. But ultimately, he can tell that he's going to disappoint you. He's not all sunshine and light, after all, but he's not interested in telling you how or why. He doesn't care what you care about, really. He's not interested. He's not simple. He's not worthless. He might be even cooler than Bob Dylan. That's the thing. There are men who are really delectable and incredibly interesting and cool out there, artists and burger flippers and businessmen and songwriters. Admirable, honorable, sweet, interesting men. But do they want to get seriously involved with a smart, complicated, intense woman? No, no, no. They don't want that. No. They are very, very clear on the fact that they don't want that. For your practical purposes, both Bob Dylan and Doesn't Know About Bob Dylan are completely useless after the first-flush, great-sex-on-the-big-brass-bed part, no matter how awe-inspiring and intriguing and sexy and poetic and weird they are. I say that not because I know that what you really want is to get married and churn out babies. That's not what we're talking about. I say that because for you, Bob Dylan and Who The Fuck Is Bob Dylan? should both be as inconceivable, as long-term partners, as you are to them, if not even more so. You don't want someone who takes complicated things and makes them very simple. You can admire this trait in others, particularly when it includes writing some of the most heartbreaking songs in the history of the world or solving a hideous crime and getting a murderer off the streets. But you don't want to share your life with someone who boils things down like that. Nor do you want to be with someone who uses the word "darkness" in a simple sentence, then doesn't explain himself or go into it after that, ever. Nor do you want to be with someone who says, "Aw, you tried so hard to know me, but I hardly tried to know you at all. Oh well. Smell ya later!" You may really love men like this, but that doesn't mean that you should be with them. Because when you are with them, you act like someone who needs a man to take care of her, whether you do or not. Men who blithely refer to their darkness, who boil things down and make them simple? They make smart, complicated, intense women curl up in little balls and weep until they're surrounded by a sea of snotty tissues. It's not "You can do better, girlfriend!" These guys are pretty fucking delicious, let's face it. It's more a matter of whether or not you actually want to be happy, to wake up feeling good. If you do, you have to challenge yourself to look for other kinds of men. Not good men instead of bad men, simply different sorts of men. You want to find a guy who looks at you and sees a person who's as rich and entertaining and fascinating as… well, Bob Dylan. This will require finding a man who actually knows who Bob Dylan is. Not because not knowing who Bob Dylan is is some kind of a crime against humanity. In some ways, it's sort of admirable and intriguing to be that focused and/or oblivious. It's sort of macho, in a weird way, to be unaware of someone that fundamental. But your guy knows who Bob Dylan is, because your guy heard "Shelter from the Storm" once on a rainy night when he was a little drunk at a lonely party in Soho, and he was feeling a little out of place among the very tall women in long black leather coats, and even though he'd heard that song before a few times, that night he thought, "Christ this really is some of the best music ever written." Your guy will be able to tell you that. Or maybe he won't say it exactly that way, on the spot, over a beer, but he'll write it to you in an email one day when he doesn't feel like working. And you'll respond with your own Bob Dylan story, about the guy you knew in college who sang Bob Dylan songs so badly while playing his shitty Ovation guitar that it ruined Bob Dylan for you for a long time. You were sort of indifferent to Bob Dylan, in fact, until this one time after a particularly bad break up, when you finally starting feeling decent enough to leave your apartment, and you found a marked-down copy of "Blood on the Tracks" and bought it on a whim and took it home and you cried through half of the songs on the album and thought, "Fuck, it really is a pity, not to know who Bob Dylan is." Your guy will think this is a seriously nice story, and he'll say so. Now you just have to believe that he exists. And you have to believe that he might not look as delectable to you at first as, say, someone who maybe looks like he has something better to do somewhere, he's not sure yet. Your guy might not have the same swagger that you'd find in a guy who'd ever say, "It ain't me, babe." In fact, your guy will probably turn his whole body toward you when he meets you, and he'll look right at you, and you'll think, "I don't like it when men turn and face me and look me right in the eye and invade my personal space. This guy is nice but he's a little bit too much, he's just not doing it for me." And then, instead of trying to charm the pants off your guy, you'll tell him that you were sick last week so your head is still filled with snot. The stakes will be low, after all, since you don't like him. You'll tell him a bunch of stuff, and he'll listen closely, and then he'll actually make you laugh, and you'll notice that he's actually sort of hot, very hot in fact and how didn't you notice before how hot he was? A week later, you'll think he's sort of a ween. A week later, you'll be in love. A week later, you'll miss the homicide detective. A year later, you and your guy will be listening to Bob Dylan on the couch drinking red wine and talking about moving to Chicago together because your guy just landed a faculty position at Northwestern, and you'll be laughing at the ridiculous line-up of jackasses you dated, before you met your guy. It's not like that's the important part, though. The really important part comes now. Stop charming the shit out of men, and start showing them exactly who you are, from the start. Be honest. Use harsh terms to describe yourself, if you must. Don’t sleep with anyone who doesn't understand that all women can be difficult, all women need hand-holding at times, all women can seem needy here and there. Seeming needy occasionally doesn't brand you as the sort of woman who needs someone who can take care of her. When someone describes you that way, start saying, "So I'm the sort of woman who wants to be taken care of sometimes… let's see, you mean I'm the sort of woman who's actually a woman, not a man dressed up as a woman? You mean I'm the sort of woman who you've known for more than two weeks?" And by the way, when you meet your guy? You won't feel like the sort of woman who needs someone who can take care of her anymore. You'll feel perfectly independent and confident and happy, and your guy will never describe you that way, in fact he'll marvel that anyone ever has described you that way at all. Don't sleep with anyone who doesn't explain himself very clearly, using words. Don’t sleep with Bob Dylan or anyone who doesn't know who Bob Dylan is. That's not your match. Stop courting differences by showing off your smile and your jokes and your flair. Stop acting like someone who's fun, fun, fun. Take yourself seriously. Walk outside and demand that the world see you as you are. Don't pretend. Don't hide. Don't act cheerful when you're not (unless you're at work, in which case, do). Don't act easier-going than you are. You'll be amazed at how relaxed you feel, leading with the truth, showing off your flaws instead of your strengths. Flaws are just as interesting as strengths, and anyone who doesn't see that isn't your kind of person. And let's see, what else? Houses will be even cheaper soon. Buy one. Find a way. Get a really nice rescue dog, and a king-sized bed, and let the dog sleep on the bed with you. Paint at least one room a very, very obnoxious color. Don't sleep with anyone. Learn to make pie from scratch. Listen to Sufjan Stevens "For The Widows in Paradise" or "Casimir Pulaski Day" and cry a lot. You'll have a nice life, and Who The Fuck Is Bob Dylan? will just be a punchline. You'll be glad for that punchline, though, and for all of the punchlines you accumulated in the era you'll later refer to as The Dark Ages – a period that's about to shift into the Age of Enlightenment. Because that's what happens when you fall to pieces in a really dramatic way: You have a huge opportunity to rebuild everything, change your perspective, and be happier than you've ever been. There's nothing wrong with feeling terrible, really, when you consider how good you're going to feel down the road. Just keep believing that you won't settle for anything less than someone who looks you right in the eye and wants to know more. If you believe that, if you make a promise to yourself not to settle for less than that, you'll feel good about yourself, you'll feel good in the world. You will create your own weird, flawed, happy life out of this rubble. You've already started to do it. Good luck! Rabbit 1:46 PM Friday, November 07, 2008 RE: GENERATION I wrote an Open Apology to Boomers Everywhere for Salon on Wednesday, then I walked around the rest of the day with a skip in my step that hasn't worn off yet. If it's naive to think that an American president can make a huge difference in the world, I don't care. I want to feel this way for as long as I can. Obviously the man will make mistakes along the way. But god, it feels so good to believe that he'll collect information and get a second and third opinion and be as honest as possible and above all, do his very best. I think it's possible to sense that about him, and that's one reason why he's been so popular. Not that creepy losers aren't often popular, but let's not think about them now. Right now I prefer to see the world as populated primarily by smart people and loving mothers and adorable puppy dogs. After so many years of gloom about the state of things, I'm going to bask in this feeling of belief and optimism for as long as I can. Too bad I can't just go ahead and love Jesus while I'm at it. Oh Jesus, I would if I could, I swear. Too many years of kneeling in that big old drafty Catholic church just killed it for me. 12:51 PM Tuesday, November 04, 2008 HELL YES! 10:42 PM Thursday, October 30, 2008 OBAMARAMA! I wrote about Obama's infomercial and "Daily Show" appearance here. I was stunned by last night's ad, expected it to be seriously dull, but it had me all choked up over the plight of the average American family. How did so many people land in such deep shit simultaneously? It really did feel like prices doubled overnight, on everything, and suddenly we were all broke. Naturally, Obama's not going to deliver us all from evil simultaneously, but my God it would be nice to see that man on TV regularly instead of the dope we've been wincing at for 8 years now. 8:20 AM Tuesday, October 28, 2008 ASSHATTERY UNLIMITED Those fucking asshats at the LA Times laid off one of their best writers (and a good friend of mine) yesterday, Carina Chocano. How fucking stupid are they? Really, really fucking stupid. Read her latest review for the paper, and then tell me if you'd prefer a simple thumbs up-thumbs down from your typical dumbed-down movie reviewer. If so, you can join the Honky Asshat League of Greater Los Angeles. Show your support for Carina's smart writing by buying yourself (and your serial monogamist friends) her hysterically funny book, Do You Love Me, Or Am I Just Paranoid? I don't think many books of this variety are funny. At all. But Carina's is shockingly, absurdly funny. Buy it. Trust Me. I don't mention stuff I don't like, even when a friend of mine wrote it. Make your day. In fact, buy up all the copies available and force them to do a massive reprinting. If you don't laugh out loud at least 5 times, I will personally send you a check in the mail for your purchase price, which you can apply to your therapy expenses. 8:18 AM Monday, October 27, 2008 FALLOUT SHELTER Wrote about the "Mad Men" finale for Salon this morning. I love that show so much, it makes me want to wear red lipstick and scowl and chainsmoke and hobble around in painful shoes. 12:43 PM Friday, October 24, 2008 RACE RULES Wondering why Obama hasn't lashed out angrily at McCain's attacks? Georgetown professor Michael Eric Dyson, one of the most compelling speakers I've ever seen in person, explains in this excellent interview reprinted in Salon. Go read it, honkies! Then buy his book, Race Rules, and learn a thing or two about race relations in this country. Or, if you got to Georgetown, take his class. Yeah, I'm sure that's an easy class to get into. Did you know I studied under Reynolds Price, Stanley Fish and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. at Duke? Using my powers of imagination! Semester after semester, I would try in vain to get into their classes, and then, when I didn't succeed in making it in or even making it onto the waiting list, I'd sit outside and imagine what they were talking about. Actually, that's not true. I signed up for "Intro to Jazz" instead and then skipped it to smoke bong hits and watch "Ren & Stimpy." I'm ready to get another degree now, honkies. I'm mature enough, curious enough, and I'm not a drunk like I was the last time I attended an institution of higher learning. What should I get a degree in? This is going to be my new way of driving people insane: Recession-blind chatter! Some examples: "Hey, where should we spend Christmas? We can't decide between Itay and Bali. Bill found a great villa in Tuscany, but it looks sort of drafty in the pictures." "Have you been to Chez Panisse lately? I think it's slipping, frankly." "Do you think jacuzzi bath tubs are tacky? I keep saying the imported tile will class it up, but Bill isn't so sure, yet he's the one who insists on having heated floors..." 8:52 AM Thursday, October 16, 2008 QUESTION Why does my archive only go to December of 2006? I can't figure it out. In other news, I've received a lot of great music suggestions -- will publish my favorites here soon. UPDATE: No one is offering any help on this front! But look to the right, scroll down: There's no link to the last 2 years of archives. Why, honkies, why? I can't figure out why this would be happening, and all of that Blogger html is so tough to parse. Any ideas? 1:59 PM Thursday, October 09, 2008 CRASH CRASH CRASH! Brother, can you spare a dime? I think we can safely consider this a stock market crash. The S&P 500 has fallen 42 percent over the last year. The vast majority of that precipitous fall has occurred over the past two weeks. Today, the market closed with the Dow below 8600. I would check the balances on my retirement accounts, but they are quite literally disappearing into thin air! Hoo hoo ha ha ha! Glory be to Jesus! My dad is having a serious laugh over this mess somewhere. He was a pretty conservative investor, having studied the huge market crashes extensively, and wrote a lot about banking deregulation and the role of federal monetary policy before the Great Depression. Too bad his sad little honky daughter doesn't have him around anymore to fill her heart with fear over the instability of the stock market. Ok, then! I think I see what you mean at last! You were right! I was wrong! About everything! We never learn the lessons our parents want to teach us until decades after they wasted their time talking into our empty little heads. Yup, ain't that the truth! Hallelujah, motherfuckers! Anyway, let's make a good Depression soundtrack, shall we? My first nominee shall be "Everything Is Free" by Gillian Welch. Good old resigned melancholy, you soothe me into a calming state of learned helplessness. Ahh, yes. Mmm. I think I'll go make some homemade chai and watch the hysteria on the evening news. When the world is crumbling around you, crushing cardamom pods can be therapeutic. Does that mean I'm officially middle-aged? Is 38 middle-aged for a honky? Don't say it is, you honky motherfuckers! Don't you fucking say it is! Send me your other nominations for the Greatest Depression mix CD, honkadaisiacs! Until then, may the Lord [and Alan Greenspan] bless you and keep you poor and humble, as poor and as humble as the day you was born! Also, send me your personal down-home cures for the Greatest Depression blues. We will make it through this together, honkies and far-more-attractive non-honky brethren alike! (Incidentally, why are non-honkies so much hotter than honkies? Particularly as they age, non-honkies get hotter and hotter, while honkies dry up and crust over like stale white bread. Motherfucker! Curses on the honky gods for making us so goddamn pale and ugly!) 4:42 PM Wednesday, October 08, 2008 BLOOD'S ON FIRE In these trying times, I need some really, really good music. Help me find good music! I love Pinback, Sufjan Stevens, TV On The Radio, The Shins, Arcade Fire. Surely there's something out there that I'm missing. I'm tolerant of odd and interesting and also tolerant of pop, to some degree. Recent releases would be nice, so I can write about it in Salon's Critics' Picks if it's good. But old albums are good, too. Send me some recommendations! (Email below to the right, linked from "write to rabbit.") Speaking of old, also love Thirty Ought Six, Slint, Drive Like Jehu, Elliott Smith, PJ Harvey, Three Mile Pilot. Love Three Mile Pilot. Love. Love. Love. PInback is probably my favorite of all time. Pinback, you complete me. Autumn of the Seraphs, great album. Also love Nautical Antiques and Blue Screen Life. But if you don't have the new TV On The Radio, Dear Science, you'd better go get it, honkies! 9:38 AM FROM NOTHNG TO NOWHERE The stock market is really tanking, motherfuckers. Personally, watching my retirement balance shrink beyond reason is just amusing. I'm not about to retire. (Unlike my poor mother, who just retired and is looking at a seriously compromised budget at this point.) This storm was a long time coming, obviously. You know what pisses me off, though? I thought about moving everything to money market last fall, after reading sites like Another Fucked Borrower for a few years, and I only moved 30%, in accordance with the common wisdom of every fucking stupid financial planning and investment book I've read. I don't why it takes fifty million examples until I'm willing to face the truth: Common wisdom is bullshit. I've decided as much on other fronts. It's just that, when you start to apply that notion to everything -- that no one knows what the fuck they're talking about and you have to follow your own instincts and question every assumption that every mindless stooge feeds you -- you turn into some paranoid motherfucker living in a fucking nuclear fallout shelter in the basement. It's total shit, though, to say that if your timeline is longer than 20 years, you should be in stocks and shouldn't try to time the market. I could've saved my own ass in a big way, just by using my head, looking around, and noticing that the sky was clearly about to fall. Oh, but if your asset allocation is just so, you're better off. Right, and index funds typically outperform managed funds. Just look at the absurdly shitty, flat performance of any S&P 500 index fund over the past 10 years if you want proof. That money could've made 4% a year in CDs, instead it made exactly nothing -- and that was before this latest market plunge. Now it's taken a big hit. How is it that people walk around telling you to aim to double your money every ten years? All it takes is ten bad years, and all of your plans are dashed. And look, you can be right on target, then take a huge hit on the eve of your retirement. Yes, yes, move into bonds, move into cash as you're about to retire. But most advisors only want you to be 40% in bonds at most, no matter what. All of these people are far riskier and more aggressive than they let on, and all of their wisdom is based on the performance of the stock market from the post-war period through the late '90s. The stock market today is a treacherous motherfucking place, whether you're in managed funds, index funds, ETFs, whatever. I know that when you move money out of stocks, you still have to time the bottom and get in before the market rebounds. But I'd rather miss the rebound slightly than sit on the sidelines and watch while the market tanks and my balances fall - something we all knew would happen. And look, when that lunatic bull Jim Cramer is saying we might see the Dow sink to 7700? Regardless of what you think of the man, that's a sign of the times. Anyway, I don't want to belabor the investment thing, because right now I'm just happy to have a job. I'm just astounded, once again, by how ridiculous it is to do what other people are doing because everyone agrees that it's the thing to do. People who don't bleat and trudge along like sheep in the herd are always painted as radicals, paranoids and freaks. Why is everyone so afraid of weirdos and naysayers? God, I wish there were more weirdos in the world. I guess election years really bring this issue out into the open. It's incredible, the amount of pandering candidates are forced to do in order to win. You can't win just by being smart and reasonable and having a fairly sane plan and a commitment to justice. The fact that Ronald Reagan, that lamentable faker, is worshipped while a pure-hearted, deeply just, intelligent man like Jimmy Carter is seen as a failure really lays bare what Americans prefer in their presidents: They love leaders who are deeply full of shit -- you know, in line with everyone else in the spotlight: CEOs, actors, pop stars and other natural-born fakes. 8:35 AM Sunday, September 21, 2008 A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES The news is getting it all wrong, of course. As taxpayers prepare to foot the bill for the rampant explosion of unregulated bundled debt securities, the news casts the whole nightmare as an elaborate bailout of mortgage companies and homeowners. Yes, idiotic lending policies and bad personal decisions played a big part in this collapse, but that's not why Bush and Co. are poised to intercede. They're taking action in order to bail out the risk-takers at the top of the heap, the international institutions and the reckless robber barons of Wall Street who bet on these unregulated debt securities and lost, and should by all rights crumble to ashes as a result. Instead, this country is prepared to spend $700 billion on what? The answer to that is a complete mystery to everyone. Glenn Greenwald summed up the whole slippery mess beautifully: [W]hatever else is true, the events of the last week are the most momentous events of the Bush era in terms of defining what kind of country we are and how we function -- and before this week, the last eight years have been quite momentous, so that is saying a lot. Again, regardless of whether this nationalization/bailout scheme is "necessary" or makes utilitarian sense, it is a crime of the highest order -- not a "crime" in the legal sense but in a more meaningful sense. What is more intrinsically corrupt than allowing people to engage in high-reward/no-risk capitalism -- where they reap tens of millions of dollars and more every year while their reckless gambles are paying off only to then have the Government shift their losses to the citizenry at large once their schemes collapse? We've retroactively created a win-only system where the wealthiest corporations and their shareholders are free to gamble for as long as they win and then force others who have no upside to pay for their losses. Watching Wall St. erupt with an orgy of celebration on Friday after it became clear the Government (i.e., you) would pay for their disaster was literally nauseating, as the very people who wreaked this havoc are now being rewarded. More amazingly, they're free to walk away without having to disgorge their gains; at worst, they're just "forced" to walk away without any further stake in the gamble. How can these bailouts not at least be categorically conditioned on the disgorgement of ill-gotten gains from those who are responsible? The mere fact that shareholders might lose their stake going forward doesn't resolve that concern; why should those who so fantastically profited from these schemes they couldn't support walk away with their gains? This is "redistribution of wealth" and "government takeover of industry" on the grandest scale imaginable -- the buzzphrases that have been thrown around for decades to represent all that is evil and bad in the world. That's all this is; it's not an "investment" by the Government in any real sense but just a magical transfer of losses away from those who are responsible for these losses to those who aren't. Greenwald's column should be on Salon's cover. Who put that idiotic TV critic's ramblings there instead? 9:42 AM Saturday, September 20, 2008 FUBAR In case you're in the dark about just how completely depraved our government's panicked bailout of this financial apocalypse is, check out this excellent and appropriately paranoid article in the New York Times (written by the stepmother of my exboyfriend from college, of all random and largely insignificant degrees of separation). I've been reading her lucid and refreshingly ill-tempered articles on credit default swaps and the other teetering houses of cards that precipitated this crisis for over a year now, and I think it pays for all of us to listen carefully to her message: This mess is hardly about the crappy decisions of a bunch of feckless individuals. It's about taking those crappy decisions (which were made possible, mind you, by the mortgage industry's insane and greedy extension of huge, idiotic, undocumented loans), bundling them together into unregulated derivatives, and selling them to institutions that used them to "get around their regulatory capital requirements intended to rein in risk". Yes, these massive, unregulated, risky securities were used as hedges, despite the fact that they were really "financial weapons of mass destruction" as Warren Buffet once described them. And now the government is stepping in to avert a worldwide financial collapse, but the carnage looks suspicious. Bear Stearns and AIG, but not Lehman? Whose interests do we need to protect, and who's left twisting in the wind? What exactly will taxpayers be paying for? Who will set the value on these complicated derivatives, the banks or the government? Morgenson points out quite clearly that, because there's not nearly enough transparency in this realm, we have no way of knowing enough not to feels suspicious, and unnerved, every step of the way. 2:59 PM Monday, September 15, 2008 SKY FALLING, MORE AT 11 Motherfucker! Train wrecks, natural disasters, financial apocalypso, and David Foster Wallace is dead. On days like this, all you can do is hit "refresh" on the New York Times site over and over again, for the latest tragedies to hit the presses. Just when you think the world can't get any gloomier, fifty crappy things happen at once. Mostly I'm depressed about DFW, one of my favorite nonfiction writers of all time. I figured I'd be reading his books for decades to come. I know everybody asks this question over and over again, but I can't help it: Why do some of the smartest, most talented people end up killing themselves? 4:59 PM Tuesday, August 19, 2008 HEY, HEY DUMMIES! I want to marry you! It's been too long, my loves. I have no excuses, beyond being a self-involved, lazy honky with a house that's filled with ants and dog hair. Summertime drifts in, sweet and lovely, then crushes the spirit with its heat, its thirsty ants, and its drifting dog-hair tumbleweeds. Should I pay people to clean my house? That's what my friends say. They have handservants who come once a week to clean their floors 'til they shine LIKE THE TOP OF THE CHRYSLER BUILDING! But can I stomach such a thing? Do I want my daughter to know that white people need not get on their hands and knees and clean, when illegal brown people can do it for them for one low, low price? Also, can I afford it? No, I cannot. But should I hire people to do it anyway? Because it's out of control? Because I don't write my own frivolous, self-involved shit anymore, because every free second must be spent busily sweeping or vacuuming or setting that Roomba (the lazy maggot!) to work somewhere? And do you know how long Roombas can survive in a truly hairy environment? About three months. Then their cleaning modules must be replaced. But the parts are always on backorder for three months! That's three months without a robot slave to help you tackle your fucking hairy floors, honkies. UNACCEPTABLE! I need a robot ant assassin. A little guy who buzzes around, electrocuting ants, and then sucking them into his ant incinerator. You see, we honkies feel more comfortable bossing around robots, even when the brown people need the work. It's just too unfair, making some human being who's already living badly scrub my disgusting toilet. I can't handle it. Besides, I deserve to do demeaning work! I don't deserve to be free from my daily battles, no matter how much they consume my supposedly-otherwise-worthwhile brain with their tedious trivialities! I am as lowly as my robot maggot! I'm the one who rescued a fluffy dog in the first place! I made my bed of floaty white dog hair, now I'm the one who should have to lie in it! OK, someone tell me about their real problems before I float away on a sea of soft-pawed, trifling concerns! 9:40 AM Monday, May 12, 2008 L'ETRANGER Dear Rabbit, Why do friendships fall away as we get older? Perhaps maybe life just becomes too complicated. Or maybe it always was more complicated – and we just didn’t want to admit it. Long ago, in a land far away, I was a young attorney of 25 living with my first husband in a big, beautiful house in the suburbs. My husband was tall, handsome and successful. My job was fun, challenging and financially rewarding. We were secure; we were young; and every day on the California coast was clear, warm and sunny. Just one problem: I was unhappy. I didn’t really know why, mind you. I generally supposed I was suffering the pathetic self-involved malaise of the young and spoiled; and maybe that was all; but, to be honest, there were also real underlying problems. My mom was very ill with an incurable case of pancreatic cancer. My husband, though seemingly very sweet and totally devoted, had odd habits and would – from time to time – disappear for hours without sensible explanation. (I later found out that he was having an affair with an intern in his office, Bill Clinton style. Classy. I didn’t know those details at the time - - but what spouse can’t correctly guess at the gist of such things?) I felt guilty being down; but couldn’t help it. In truth, the suburbs seemed sterile and depressing. I missed the city and the friends I’d left behind there. I spent way too much time wondering about all of the other parts of life that I was failing to explore while I sat in my little office each day, cranking out formulaic briefs and memos for cases that no one cared about. There was, thankfully, one bright spot. Shortly after we wed, my husband’s best friend Marc came to visit. He had been practicing law in New York, but his fiance wanted to move to California. So he moved out a few months ahead of her to find a job and a place to live. As a practical matter, though, for those first few months, he lived with us. Oh, Rabbit – what a joy this turned out to be! Marc was funny, adorable, and painfully charming. We liked all of the same books, songs, movies and art – we were on the same wavelength every day. We were the two people who would keep talking long after everyone else at the party had left or passed out on the couch. There were times when we stayed awake all night talking. He was the (completely platonic) spark in my day. Soon enough, his fiancé moved out and soon the four of us were spending all of our spare time together. Movies, concerts, long walks, drinking, traveling, philosophizing or loafing – we were inseparable. My husband and I were the only friends who attended their brief wedding in Vegas. It was a peaceful and magical time. I was still burdened with the sadness of what I described above, but something about this special friendship with Marc made it all more bearable. Here was someone, at last, who at least understood why I felt as I did – about work, the suburbs, everything. Someone whose company made each day sunnier. Yes, I’d had plenty of boyfriends in college and law school; I had even found one that I loved well enough to marry; but Marc was the first man that I really felt “got” me. Before I met him, I suppose I didn't even know such a feeling or connection was truly possible. (As I say: I was young.) Then, one New Year’s Eve 2003, everything changed color. My husband and I were hosting a big party at our house and nearly everyone was drunk, as the holiday requires. I was feeling blue and Marc was doing his best to cheer me with his usual humor and charm. Then, and I’ll still never understand exactly how this happened, but I remember that he said something unusually kind to me – something that suggested that he couldn’t stand to see me sad because he believed I was the most amazing woman he had ever met. Our eyes met and – I stopped breathing. Suddenly, and without fair warning – I was in love. And, with no words – gestures – nor anything more from him, I knew that he felt the same. Mind you, Rabbit: there was never anything physical between us. Not on that night -- nor at any time thereafter. There were no stolen moments of passion; no frank confessions of our feelings. Even if left alone for hours on end, we never so much as held hands. We discussed that we might have liked to do so; but were both focused on our honoring our existing commitments and that never changed, even as the feelings between us deepened. We continued on and I used to think that anyone with eyes could see what was happening; but we kept ourselves in denial, if only because no one had the guts to imagine facing the trauma of doing anything differently. Time passed. My mother died. I separated from my husband and filed for divorce. It was the right move, but still a trauma. I lost the ability to concentrate at work. My mind started to falter and buckle on me. I was fragile and hadn't yet developed the tools that one needs to cope with life's inevitable series of challenges. The most common and reasonably to be anticipated tragedies in life -- death of a parent, failure of a relationship -- left me overwhelmed. I finally hit a low point and I remember feeling that I understood why some people just gave up on life. At the lowest point, when I really couldn’t imagine continuing, I was sitting on the floor, knife in hand, talking to a suicide counselor who was begging me to think of one thing that would make tomorrow worth trying. I could only think of Marc’s face; but, at that moment, it was enough. That was literally the low point of my life. The good news is: it was all uphill from there. After that, I moved back to the city to follow my dreams. I changed careers -- made new friends -- traveled the world -- happily remarried and had a fantastic little kid. It couldn't have turned out better, truthfully. My life truly turned around. These were very happy years. I never talked with Marc or my ex-husband again; although, surprisingly, I did hear from Marc’s wife from time to time. Their life sounded good: they still lived in the same pretty little small town and had two sweet and wonderful children. Everything, truthfully, seemed to work out for the best all around. Resilience! But you can see where this is going, can’t you Rabbit? Here we are, 15 years later, and I suddenly receive an email from Marc, my long-lost best friend Common sense says to avoid opening it, but curiosity gets the best of me. We begin to correspond. He is lonely and needing someone to talk with – much the same way that I had felt when first I met him 15 years prior. His life is good; but he has no truly close friends and his best friend – his wife – has been seeing other people. Our situations, in a way, have flipped; and I see the opportunity to repay an old debt – to lift his spirits in the way he used to lift mine -- and we begin talking every day. It is very fun, of course. I won’t deny that it brings me intense joy. But who can resist wanting to know the real answer about everything that happened back in the day? Of course he raises the subject (perhaps the real reason that he wrote in the first place?) And this time, with so much time and space between us, I see no reason to lie about my feelings. Yes, 15 years ago I loved him and I’m happy now to confess it. He feels the same and remembers every moment of our past friendship with the same fondness – albeit with added tension and some regret – that I do. Needless to say, we are both relieved and feel that a hole in our hearts has been mended. It is comforting and warm. Until, of course, the inevitable (?) happens. His wife taps into his email account and reads all of our letters. She is hurt and angry at the thought that he had feelings of love for me during the early days of their marriage. Even more angry that he should reach out again all these years later to find me. Marc tries very hard to argue for days that he and I should continue to talk, but I am skeptical – afraid of causing more damage. Eventually, it becomes too much for both of us; but he is the first one to draw a line in the sand and say that, until he and his wife can resolve their issues, we should probably stop talking. I agree. That was one week ago and we haven’t spoken since. Somehow, despite all good intentions, I have lost one of my oldest and dearest friends – for the second time. So, my question is: Rabbit, what have I done wrong? How did I lose such a dear friend – not once, but twice? Was I wrong to be honest? Should I have realized that my feelings still had the potential to cause harm? Would it have been safer to take them with me to the grave? I had such naïve hopes this time, Rabbit. That our friendship could be conventional and without complication. I really thought there was a hope we were heading in that direction. That our spouses and children could someday be friends with each other. That our family could see their family twice a year and grill hamburgers in the backyard. That at least, minimally, we could enjoy each other’s company. Talk about books and movies. Talk about kids or the weather. It wouldn’t really matter. Given how challenging it is find a good friend at this tricky middling stage of life – someone who really knows or understands you and is going through all of the same things – it could have been very fulfilling. For what it is worth: I have told my husband this whole story. He was very kind and supportive. ven supports my friendship with Marc and he wishes that everything could have somehow worked out differently for us. He has been great about trying to lift my sprits. He is, quite generally, awesome. I love him and -- just for the record -- have no intention of ever leaving him. But I also wonder this, Rabbit: is there a flavor of love that should or must be ignored and written off as irrelevant? Twice Lost Dear Twice Lost, Well, first I have to admit to a prejudice against corresponding with long-lost-friends/ lovers/ wannabe lovers out of the blue, fishing for a taste of intrigue, pondering what might have been, revealing true feelings, revisiting the past, etc. Even though these things might start off on pretty solid ground – “Hey old friend! What’s happening with you these days?” -- both parties are always clear on the point where it slips onto shaky territory. “How did you feel back then? Wow, I always thought that…” You start walking down that path, and things get weird fast. We all google old boyfriends and wonder what they’re doing, without thinking twice about it. And every now and then, maybe someone contacts you out of the blue, and it sends you back to how you felt a long time ago. Things always seem unduly romantic when you look back at them from 15 years later – or unduly tragic, or unduly mysterious. They’re larger than life, particularly when your life consists of wiping shit off a small person’s ass several times a day. I think that when your life is stable and predictable, there’s some part of you that wants to be back in that unpredictable, rarefied space where a look makes your heart drop, where you feel powerful and alive and full of lust for someone you can/can’t/shouldn’t have. When you make mundane decisions and complete mundane tasks for a family every day, occasionally your subconscious mind, at the very least, wants to float free in a heavy, romantic, swooning, exotic, youthful mire again. So your eyes met, and you stopped breathing. That’s how you described the all-important moment when you both knew you were in love. See, these are exactly the sorts of relationships that we tend to get nostalgic and romantic about: Platonic relationships that never went further, affairs that ended prematurely, even people we always had crushes on, way back when. You’re craving that one split second BEFORE you fuck the guy, and nothing more. Most of us are hung up on that moment, thanks to being flooded with its supreme significance through every minute of our waking hours on earth. But keep in mind, just two seconds later, you’re breathing again while Marc fumbles with his boxer briefs, and you’re worried about that scar on your back. It doesn’t get much better than the minute your eyes meet, and you know. That’s the pinnacle, but it’s just one tiny moment, blown out of proportion. If you’d actually dated Marc, you’d know that he was careless with people, tended toward self-obsession, and farted incessantly in bed at night. And personally, I have to say that I distrust the man or woman who goes out looking to find old friends or lovers and ends up waxing nostalgic via email night after night as his/her marriage falls to pieces. That’s the easy road, a distraction from the hard work of sticking with someone, or even deciding not to. In my opinion, if the other person clearly isn’t telling their spouse, that’s a red flag. If they’re obviously in love with the idea of you and have no idea what a bossy bitch you can be, you’re just an escapist fantasy dressed up in sensitive, intellecutal sheep’s clothing. It’s nice to get verbose, heartfelt emails from anyone, but sometimes you really have to look at the whole thing in the cold, hard light of day. In many ways, you’re as glorified and imaginary as someone he met in a chat room. Yes, you bared your souls, way back when. And what’s the answer, break off all connection to old friends and old lovers? Probably not. But when the correspondence starts to feel even a tiny bit sneaky or addictive, it’s probably not all that good for you or him, since you’re both married to other people. If you mention your spouse but the other person doesn’t like talking about him (or about his spouse), if there’s a lot of “If only we knew!” and “Too bad the timing was wrong!” and rehashing of those one or two magic moments, if you’re laying out your life philosophies like you just started dating or just fell in love, then you’re whipping up intrigue. You’re manufacturing mystery. You’re stirring up a cheap imitation of romance. You’re wanking – not waxing – nostalgic. And look, we’re all human, and our souls want what they want, no matter what our hearts and minds are committed to. Even if you cut all contact with ex-crushes or dangerous strangers out of your life, you still might go to bed at night and have a dream about fucking George Clooney. (If you’re lucky, that is. If you’re unlucky, it might be the mailman, with his unsightly patches of body hair and bad teeth.) No one is perfect and pure, not even Jimmy Carter. The best thing for all parties is to keep it to yourself. When people get online and try to get some reassurance or some charge from exlovers or excrushes – it’s an act of fantasy, in my opinion. It’s not about a real connection. Dressing it up like it’s this whirlwind, magical thing is wishful thinking, and it’s sort of self-indulgent and it probably just means that he needs more from his wife, or needs more from his life, and you want to make some change as well. It’s probably not a big change – you’re happy now, after all. Maybe you just want to share your thoughts and ideas with old friends – just not this particular old friend. He may be the absolute greatest, but I doubt that he’s really, truly all that important in the big scheme of things, and I don’t think that losing your friendship with him deserves all that much mourning. It’s sexually charged for him, he’s lonely, the whole thing operates in his life in a totally different way than it operates in yours. It’s nice that your husband is trusting and recognizes your need to connect with an old friend, but Marc isn’t even a reasonable or safe person for you to befriend, for the sake of your marriage, even if his wife were ok with it. Avoiding screwing up your marriage is partially a matter of avoiding situations where the lines are blurry. If your husband said to you, “I’m going to have lunch with my friend M. She truly understands me. We never slept together, but I always wanted to. Oh well. I hope I can be there for her as she’s going through this tough time.” I think you’d laugh in his face, then hide his car keys. Your soul can want what it wants. It can want George Clooney or the mailman or Marc. But you have choices about which fantasies you feed and which you wave goodbye to. So you’ll never get to know what it would be like to be with Marc. And now you don’t get to share anything with him, and you don’t get the charge of seeing his name in your In Box (Honestly, sometimes I think that’s half of the appeal – breaking up the monotony of your work day and interrupting the mundane realm with something that has the illusion of romantic divinity.) Buy the book “Soul Mates” by Thomas Moore and read it – he writes very convincingly and poetically about the crazy shit that our souls crave as we get older, things that have nothing to do with our everyday lives. Before I read that book, I didn’t even like the word “soul” all that much – too New Agey and, well, middle-aged-sounding. But it’s a really great book about figuring out what forces are working on you when you’re in crisis, and finding ways of feeding your innermost needs and desires without toppling your entire apple cart to do it (in most cases, anyway). Moore is pretty open and loose about why we want the things we want, and his whole tone is much less dismissive than mine, so you’ll like it a lot better than this response. Like I said, I’m prejudiced about this stuff. I feel strongly that people wander into dangerous territory all too often, when really, all they want is some way of connecting with someone outside of their family or marriage, or some way of expressing some part of themselves that’s been latent for too long. Having a marriage and a kid doesn’t mean you stop wanting to be a person in the world who’s recognized and has her own power and her own desires and ideas. And as women, we have to face the fact that we go from being the most electrifying presence in the room to being ignored completely almost overnight. I still feel great now, sure, but I’ve watched my mom go from being flirted with everywhere to being treated like a clown or dismissed outright without even opening her mouth. Women have a fucking hard road, aging-wise – it’s totally unhinged and unjust and downright creepy, really. But I think it’s smart to look at these things early, and ask ourselves what we want to continue to do, the things that sustain us and make us feel like vital, important and full of possibility. Jesus, I’m talking like a really annoying yoga instructor now! You know what I really think? I think that the attention of some married man from your past is beneath you. Yes, I know it’s just a friendship. But come on. He’s just some guy. If I or one of your girlfriends met him, we’d say, “Oh, him? Whatever.” He could be George Clooney and we’d feel that way. The fact that some guy gets hard when he thinks about you – and let’s not dress it up as much more than that, because no matter how wonderful and enduring your friendship was, it wasn’t important until he got lonely and his wife slept around. The thing with Marc, it’s overrated. What you really want is to feel that you’re hot shit, regardless of what anyone else thinks. You want to feel important, and charming, and pretty. You want to have all that energy back, the energy to write long, long emails about your beliefs and your ideas. You can write those things to your husband. You can write them on a blog. You can write them in a journal. If you made time to write long emails, you can make time for something else – long emails for you. Because this is about doing something for you, being who you are outside of a mother and wife, expressing yourself and putting yourself out there and feeling like you’re making your mark. If you do these things for you, then they aren’t an escape, they aren’t addictive or compulsive, they help to sustain you, they strengthen your confidence and your sense of self. This isn't about Marc. It's not about an affair. It's not about friendship, or helping out an old friend. It's not about your marriage. It's simply an existential crisis. Hurray! Existential crises are fun and legitimately romantic and full of possibility, and - bonus - they don't wreck your home life or anyone else's. You're at the beginning of a new path. All you have to do is get to know yourself better, and make some new, fresh decisions about how you want to spend your time, and organize your thoughts in new ways. You're ready to try new things, to get stronger, and to feel more alive. Good luck! Rabbit 4:40 PM Friday, May 09, 2008 SHINE THE SILVER AND THROW OUT THE GOLD Rabbit; Sometimes when I look back on my glacial maturing process, I excuse it away by saying, my parents had eighteen years in which they systematically fucked me up, and that I simply needed as many years un-fucking myself. If you do the math, Rabbit, that landed me squarely in my mid-thirties. Now I’m in my early forties and in the interim I have gone thru this shedding process you speak of in your latest posting concerning the “disappearance” of -- presumably -- long-term friendships. I belong to a group of about a dozen and a half friends and spouses from college who’ve been together for as much as twenty-five years now. We’ve celebrated that friendship in hundreds of ways, year after year with engagement parties, weddings, divorces, religious-conversions, births, hospitalizations, deaths, gay comings-out, activist demonstrations, at New Year’s weekends, on ski-trips, in car accidents, one-on-ones, in crushes, as roommates, at goings-away, returns, promotions, the whole array of life’s experiences. The longevity of this group has been an amazing feat, but now, as I look back, it was probably due in large part to the ways in which we filled out certain positive and negative familiar (and familial) roles. It’s a highly successful, largely creative group. Between us there are a couple self-made millionaires, philanthropists, news producers, film directors, book writers, book publishers, television actors, professional songwriters, and movie professionals. On any given week we have sought the emotional and professional generosity of the others, and have received it in boatloads (WARNING: Don’t send your kid to a cheap school that doesn’t boast a wide mix of social classes). It is also a boozy, intimidating, dark-humored group, whose certain members can be vicious, biting and cruel. We would all make the perfect subjects of a book about how a particular college group stood and/or didn’t stand the trials & tribulations of time. Over the two-dozen plus years many of us spent a lot of time re-enacting with each other bad relationships with our alcoholic, emotionally arrested or otherwise undeveloped parents. Personally, I spent a lot of time fretting over this group’s often withholding or seeming disapproving opinion, not ever realizing that it wasn’t they who’d moved away from me -- in little sub-cliques within the group -- but that without a meaningful event I had grown apart from some of them. I simply hadn’t had the inner strength and courage it took to make an obvious break. I was needy and unmet. However, over the last few years eventually I did. It helped that in that time I also moved, picking up a lot of long-lost and fresh blood, got married and inherited many quality friends from my wife. Wonderful people; the kind of people I’ve come to thoroughly enjoy outside of my original little group. Smart, funny, generous, open, curious, supportive, enthusiastic, soulful people. People you can get really excited about as you imagine a bright future spilled out before you. It’s hard not to compare the two. If I look back on it honestly, I can see myself desperately searching for a deep connection I was never going to get; a repeat of my relationship to my family. It was so nice when some of those relationships -- not all -- eventually evolved into just the thing I was searching for -- perhaps too eagerly -- all along. It was just as well that some of them fell away. My wife describes this dynamic in her own life with long-haul relationships, many from college. She says she thinks those people with whom relationships didn’t evolve were the ones where they’d froze their impression of her when she was struggling and then an adjustment was never made to make room for the newly emerged person. Perhaps respect was lost in all the listening that was endured. Perhaps it was easier to slap a simple label on it. Perhaps the evolution that did occur disrupted the pecking order, who knows. I’m sure it’s something caveman. Either way, it is what it Is - life. And, what’s more, it’s not over yet. What I mean to say is, I’m thrilled to have made it through my struggles (with more to come) and to have arrived here beside this wonderful person. You’ve heard it before, Rabbit, from your mother probably, but it bears repeating, because it’s no less true thirty years later: sometimes, perhaps, we simply need new friends. What do you think, Rabbit? Your Pallie-wallie Dear Pallie-wallie, New friends, new friends. I have trouble wrapping my brain around the concept of new friends until I meet someone new I really like and want to spend more time with, which doesn’t happen all that often these days. So, while I agree in principle (and certainly the new friends you describe sound solid), there’s something distasteful to me about the whole concept of comparing new friends to old friends, whether as silver vs. gold or as people who don’t meet your needs and don’t inspire you vs. people who do. Maybe that’s because, ideally, new friends should really have nothing at all to do with old friends, just like developing a little crush on your secretary shouldn’t come to bear on a long, happy marriage. Of course new friends -- who never saw you through your most achingly stupid and immature times, who never heard you blurt out something angry in a weak moment, who haven’t come to understand you as a complicated, flawed, but well-intentioned human being over the years – are always going to seem much more generous and easygoing and reasonable than old friends, just as you’re going to appear to be much more generous and easygoing and reasonable to them than you do to people who’ve known you since you were a total wreck. And while it’s absolutely true that there are those old friends who will always put you in a tiny box of your worst flaws, or they’ll be disappointed that you’re not a drunk loudmouth anymore (so boring!) or they’ll just annoy the fuck out of you with the same old problems and obsessions and short-sightedness that they’ve had for years, a lot of these stumbling blocks can be circumnavigated or even addressed along the way, with enough mutual trust and a forgiving enough attitude. I guess what I’m trying to get at is that, while I know exactly what you mean when you describe outgrowing a group dynamic that’s condescending or aggressive or competitive or unfair or just doesn’t serve certain individuals in the group, and I totally understand the notion of feeling needy and unmet by people who really, truly will never, ever get you, no matter what you do or say, I feel certain that the generous, lovely new friends you describe nonetheless have just as many dysfunctional twists and turns in their pasts, you just have the privilege (or misfortune) of not knowing about them. Furthermore, just as you might not be served, as an individual, by your group of old friends, you should take pains not to confuse the group dynamic with the actual personalities of the individuals in question. It’s easy enough to say: “Those motherfuckers, with their nasty, overachieving, competitive, condescending, judgmental ways!” But then you look at specific people, and you’ll see: This guy is my friend, and if I drop him completely, eventually I’ll feel the loss of that friendship. For me, personally, any friend who’s remained in my life since I was in my 20s or earlier gets a free pass to piss me off and annoy me indefinitely. Any friendship that’s adaptive and resilient enough to have made it this far in spite of plenty of mistakes and some ill-chosen words on both sides deserves my continued generosity and devotion, in my opinion. I’m not talking here about a group, of course – groups sometimes survive even where individual friendships inside the group would never have formed in the first place without the group to hold them together. I’m talking about people who know me very, very well, and I know them well, and we’ve listened to each other enough and challenged each other enough to feel like family to each other. But groups of friends are different. They have unspoken codes of behavior, and tend to favor a blind all-for-one attitude while frowning on open, honest, emotionally relevant dialogue and/or a direct confrontation of problems that arise. Let’s face it, pallie-wallie, when it comes to groups, we’re all needy and unmet in one way or another. Keep revealing your innermost feelings or following your compulsions to express yourself around your new friends, and I’m sure you’ll hit similar walls. None of us can mature fast enough to be seamlessly OK and healthy in the company of a wide range of personalities that’s guided by invisible codes of behavior and shared beliefs. And don’t even think about pointing out one of those invisible codes or notions to anyone in the group – groups of friends are, by their very nature, composed of team players who have no interest in dissecting how the group actually functions, or which parties sometimes get the short end of the stick. Ah, but I’m making it all sound so malevolent, when it’s all human nature and group dynamics (which spring, at least in part, from the family dynamics of the individuals involved). I guess what I really want to say is that you can make a careful, thoughtful decision about whether or not to remain friends with this old friend or that old friend, but throwing out an entire group in one fell swoop and then admiring the superior qualities of a new group, a group which, conveniently enough, is already in the loop thanks to your wife, sets off a few red flags with me. Keep your old friends or don’t, but the new ones certainly aren’t a replacement, any more than a flirtatious secretary is a replacement for the lifelong friend and caring partner you find in your wife. Maybe they’ll evolve into old friends, over time, and maybe they’ll generously accept you, warts and all, without being biased by your past struggles. But right now, compared to your old friends, these people are strangers. They’ll piss you off and disappoint you, too, and you’ll really only know if they’re actually friends or not once you’ve been through a little shit together. I mean, Jesus, some people really, truly come through when the shit hits the fan, and others completely disappear. The healthiest-seeming motherfuckers in the world are sometimes the most avoidant and passive-aggressive of them all, under duress. You’re happy and content and grateful right now, though, and you seem smart and reasonable. I’m really just drawing conclusions and drawing lines in the sand where none exist, for my own gratification. Look, it’s my fucking blog, Pallie, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with it. God, why do you always have to be so judgmental? This isn’t about you, for once, OK? Whatever, let’s just talk about it later. I’ve gotta go. (Click.) Hi, Pallie? Whatcha up to? Really? Hey, you know, it’s so funny, I was thinking about you and I realized that I totally went off on my own little trip for a while there. I get it. You were just saying that sometimes old friendships die for a reason. I agree with that. And if a friendship is really unjust and poisonous and wrong, it can really pollute the waters, emotionally speaking. Every now and then, someone writes to me, and I can tell that their entire microcosm is shitty for them, that they can’t relate to anyone they know, even though there are probably tons of people out there who would be so much better suited to them as friends. It sounds like you’re in the right place already. I just want to take this time to advocate for the old friend. Sure, I’ve dropped old friends, and old friends have dropped me, and rejection sucks and sometimes moving on is the only sane thing to do. But those old friends who know your whole history, who put up with your quirks, who tolerate your occasional obsessions, who are absolutely there for you when big things are happening? Those people should be treated very, very well. Those are the people who, when they get dumped, you leave your kid in the other room with your husband and talk to them on the phone for an hour, then blow off work the next day to talk for two more hours. You throw them parties, you buy them stuff, and if they’re single, you listen to the mundane details of their day-to-day lives, because single people need to unload these things on someone, and they need to know that you’re like family to them and won’t judge them for being a little longwinded occasionally. I’ve fucked up friendships, dropped friendships, bailed on people, offended people, annoyed and alienated friends to no end, so I’m not saying I’m fucking true blue across the board. But I do think there’s something to be said for really, really knowing which friends in your life are a top priority, and then committing to those people and honoring your commitment to them, no matter how inconvenient or annoying it is sometimes. Old friends are really important and necessary and precious, that’s all. Maybe some of us need new friends, but do we simply need new friends? In most cases, it’s not that simple. Rabbit 2:58 PM Sunday, May 04, 2008 THE BEAN EATERS I wrote a piece about bracing for a recession here, in case anyone is interested. It was at least partially inspired by something I wrote here on Ye Olde Rabbit Blogge, so that's a nice reminder that Ye Olde Rabbit Blogge is a vital and important part of my life as a "writer." ("Why" would I put "writer" in "quotes"? What the "fuck"?) I've been thinking a lot lately about how friendships change, mature, grow saggy and disappear in your mid to late 30s. Anyone want to hold court or gripe loudly on this subject? If so, I'm all ears. I don't know how I developed such a taste for unfettered whining, but I have quite an appetite for gripes of all stripes. Unfettered whining is a banana split for the motherfucking soul. 8:35 PM Monday, April 28, 2008 APRIL SHOWERS BRING MAY GLOWERS Dear Rabbit, I'm an older mom-to-be (38) expecting her first baby in late June and I'm dealing with a problem that might as old as the hills but I'm hoping you'll listen and help me out anyways. It's the baby shower and all the hopes, dreams, and bizarre traditions that go along with it. Things have gotten out of hand and I don't know what to do about it. I'm a fixer/helper by habit but this seems pretty unfixable. I've always been sort of uncomfortable with the concept of a baby shower anyways. But now that I'm in the throes of the last trimester I understand better where they come from. People love the idea of new life and the ones carting it around inside them are too exhausted and stressed to prepare adequately on their own. So when my friend "Megan" offered to co-host a baby-shower for me and asked me to hook her up with any one else who wanted to do the same, I was thrilled. She doesn't really know any of my other friends so she wasn't able to contact them directly. A few months passed and none of my three oldest, closest friends stepped up so I sent Megan the email addresses of a bunch of people who had expressed some interest in participating and included these three girls. That's probably when the unpleasant feelings started coming up for me. Something along the lines of "I'm asking people to host a shower for us? Yuck." Within a few days, five more people had volunteered to put something together for us. And in the process, I caught wind of something that immediately made me a lot more uncomfortable. "Sarah," who couldn't participate for various reasons, let me know that Megan had told the rest of the folks that part of shower hostessing was chipping in on a big gift for the parents. Well, Megan's financial circumstances and background are very different from most of these other five girls. She's a sales rep from the suburbs and they're a filmmaker, students, an admin assistant, and a full-time mom whose husband is in the faltering real estate business. When I found out about the "big gift" I got nervous and, while I didn't disclose to Megan the tax returns of my other friends, I said to her, "You know I consider the shower the biggest gift of all. Anything else from the hostesses would just be bonus." A bunch of us were also in the midst of planning a shower for another friend and I sent Megan the master plan for this shower and said, "This is the kind of thing I'd like." It was very simple. Just a bunch of potluck dishes. I even asked that the invitation mention that hand-me-downs and gently used items were preferred. I thought she got the picture but come to find out a few days before the shower, through Megan herself, that she found the rest of my friends' ideas and budgetary constraints "naive" and not only was she having the thing catered but the big gift had been purchased, apparently before finding out what if anything the rest of the ladies could contribute. At least one of these girls had sent her an email stating clearly that she was very upset with how things were going. Megan claims that she shared this information thanks to the influence of two margaritas. I sort of regret buying said margaritas or asking her how things were going. But I sort of regret the whole thing. When I saw the turn things were taking, I took certain steps to make my preferences clear but I also told myself "These ladies are all adults and they can take care of themselves. They also know me and how thrifty I am. Surely they'll put their feet down before anything gets out of their comfort zones." But now it sounds like that didn't happen the way I thought it would. I mean, none of my friends have the wherewithal to ignore their budgets. So then I thought, "Megan could have adjusted her ideas based on the limitations of her co-hostesses." but it sounds like she hasn't and is going to end up eating alot of the cost. And that in the meantime she might've guilt-tripped and shamed the other hostesses because of their preferences and limitations. I'm afraid that I'm facing one friend who is resentful for having spent too much and others who are resentful for having been pressured into spending too much. I feel this desperate need to fix this situation and apologize to every party. But I also feel like I need to explain to everyone besides Megan "This is not my fault!! This wasn't my idea" And even to Megan, I want to say "I told you I didn't want a big gift. I told you I wanted a low key, pot luck style food situation." I sometimes tell myself I could have managed this situation better if I hadn't let them do it on their own. But that's really a lie. The planning got into full swing right around the time I hit 28 weeks and my energy just bottomed out. Plus I had massive amounts of work to do too. If it had been up to me I probably would've just let the whole thing slide. I just feel terrible. I'm going to resist the temptation to ask other people how they felt about what happened because, at 32 weeks, I can't deal with the guilt right now or the stress of trying to make things right. I keep thinking "Well clearly I'll just have to fete these ladies right when it is their turn." But I wonder if you've got any ideas about how to deal with the current situation in a thoughtful and mature manner that doesn't involve guilt, defensiveness, finger pointing, or "I told you so"s. Thanks, Needs the Stuff but Not the Stress Dear NTSBNTS, Sweet Jesus, do I know what you’re going through. First I had a last-minute shower thrown by a friend who took pity on me (“Oh my god, no one has planned you a shower yet? What the hell?” “Oh, showers are dumb.” “No! You have to have a shower! It’s an absolute crime to have to buy all that crap yourself!”) I offered to have it at my house because she had a studio-sized house and a toddler and I didn’t want to stress her out over a total act of charity, but then she sent out an invitation from “Friends of H” instead of listing her name. Immediately, my other friends sent out similarly even more pitying messages (“Are you ‘Friends of Rabbit’? You shouldn’t have to throw your own baby shower!”). Then another friend insisted that she MUST throw my shower, at her place. She loved baby showers, she had always wanted to throw one, and it only made sense. I said she should talk to my other friend, but that I felt pretty sure that the other friend probably would love to be let off the hook for the whole thing, since she had a very demanding job and a very demanding toddler and was only stepping in to save me from an uncertain baby-showerless future. So the shower-loving friend took over, sent out an invitation, then left the country for a week . For the next two weeks leading up to the shower, confused invitees emailed me with questions, so that basically did feel like I was the one hosting my own shower, a task that not only felt like a total fucking scam (“Here’s the list of shit I want”) but that I had about as much proclivity for, in my 9-month-pregnant state, as an elephant has for hosting a tea party. Day by day, I felt guilty and embarrassed and stupid and pathetic and friendless and yet, I knew that anything I said to anyone would make me look like nothing less than an enormous (literally and figuratively), whiny, ungrateful, disgusting loser. The day of the shower came, and I wanted to call and say I was sick, but instead I waddled in, had a fruity virgin cocktail, surveyed the fresh flowers and the homemade empanadas my friend had stayed up all night making, and I felt incredibly grateful and happy and guilty, of course, but mostly just thankful that I had such great friends. Here’s the thing you have to remember: You’re pregnant. Even if you could ascertain what was going on (which you can’t), you’re still going to feel much more responsibility for the whole thing than you should. Yes, it’s always terrible when a rich friend asks poor friends to pony up for anything, and it sucks when it’s done in your name, for your benefit, when all you want is a pile of hand me downs. But this is the way showers are: Someone other than you is planning the whole thing (ideally). Whatever they plan, you have to go along with it. I’m sure Abby or Ann Landers would tell you to intervene and gently inform the host blah blah blah, but fuck it. You’re too big and pregnant to successfully maneuver through that minefield. It doesn’t matter if your friend asks too much. It doesn’t matter if your other friends gripe to her and to each other. All of that has nothing whatsoever to do with you. If some friends want to say, “I’m buying X my own gift,” they can do that. If others want to say, “You’re a soulless yuppie hostess whose asking too much from us,” that’s their right. You need not concern yourself with any of that. You’re a human manufacturing plant right now, and diverting energy away from your basic function will only cause a world of pain and grief for everyone involved. I realize now that mistakes were made along the way to my baby shower, and look, I never want anyone else to plan another party for me, unless of course it’s a surprise party and I don’t have to think about it at all until there’s a crowd of smiling faces and a margarita the size of my head staring me in the face. But mostly when I look back at my shower I think, “Wow, so many of my friends really, really wanted to do the right thing for me.” Both hostesses were totally well-meaning and heroic in their efforts, and I’m sure I stepped on their feet numerous times along the way, in my clumsy, stomping, confused-animal state. When events like this are planned, friends end up criticizing the way other friends handle things – they’re not friends with each other, and they all think they know what’s best for YOU. It’s not just the cost alone – believe me. Your friend will balk because someone took the reigns in a way that they wouldn’t have, because they know it would make you feel bad if you knew. But right now, you need to pretend you know nothing. Ask the hostess to keep you in the dark. Just tell her you can’t handle it, and apologize for whatever trouble comes up. If other friends hint that your hosting friend is being obnoxious, smile and say, “She means well” and assure them that they should do whatever they feel like doing, you’ll be happy with hand me downs or used clothes or just seeing everyone right before the baby comes. That’s if they mention it. If they don’t, don’t bring it up. Trust me, it doesn’t do any good to get wrapped up in it. Again, you’re pregnant. You’re prepared to take action and wage holy jihad over the slightest offense. Someone could say to you, “I just saw a lost kitten down the street” and you’d spend the rest of your week looking for it (trust me, I know this from experience). This isn’t your battle to fight. Leave it alone. Don’t touch it. Don’t think about it. Know that you’ll show up, the food will be wonderful, everyone will be freshly showered and smiling, and you’ll open a bunch of crap that scares the hell out of you but really does come in handy down the road. Be gracious to everyone. Believe me, the less you gripe now, the easier it’s going to be to enjoy the whole thing later. Everyone already knows that YOU wouldn’t have squeezed money out of anyone for anything. But even so, don’t forget that the misguided yuppie friend, however uncool, really wants to do the right thing, too. She can’t imagine not writing a check for whatever amount a hostess requested. That’s her personal code, and there’s something to be said for the friends who just hand over money, even if they can’t afford it, in order to be a good, helpful citizen. Haven’t we all choked up a big chunk of money for a birthday dinner and then lived on credit cards for the rest of the month, simply so we didn’t have to rock the boat and make other people uncomfortable, particularly on someone’s birthday? Even though we all think that we alone can determine the right way and the wrong way to handle these things, everyone has a different opinion based on their background, and there really aren’t clear guidelines on how to act, no matter what Ann and Abby say about it. So goddamn it, go to that shower and eat that damn good food and enjoy yourself! Gush over it, open the big present and gasp and make everyone feel great about the fact that they’ve been eating beans all month for you. It’s not your fault, and fuck it, enjoy your day in the goddamn sun. As a 37-year-old mother of a 18-month old, I can tell you, a catered party in my honor sounds pretty damn good right about now! Not that you’re an ingrate. I wouldn’t relive that baby shower weirdness again if you paid me. But look, it is an absolute crime to have to buy all of that crap yourself. (And anything you don’t get as a present, you should borrow from someone if you can. The first host of my shower insisted that I borrow a whole room full of stuff, and it was the nicest and most life-saving move I can possibly imagine.) But you know what will really make you feel ok about your situation? Another queasy baby shower story! Come on, I know there are tons of them out there! Send ‘em my way – rabbt (at) this url. Good luck with your new human! Rabbit 10:27 AM Wednesday, April 16, 2008 GUILT TO SPILL Dear Rabbit, I am a reasonably successful guy in the age group between boomer and X-er. My job is reasonably well-paid, but nothing obscene. It's also insecure, and I could lose it at any time, though its not actively under threat. This matters, since I am married, and have 3 young kids, who will be an impressive financial burden once they start to get closer to college age. Plus there's the whole "planning for retirement" thing, which I am trying to be very proactive about. All in all, the situation is, if not under control, then at least within some semblance of it, assuming I remain steadily employed for the next 20 years, and don't develop a cocaine habit. The problem in this happy little American dream story is, like the typical American schmuck that I am, I can't get along with my mother-in-law. She is of the genus, Irresponsibilis Depressis, a repeat offender at binge spending, borrowing against her house, losing the house as a result, and moving into a smaller place. Lather, rinse, repeat. To the point that now she is actually living in a (fairly nice) subsidised housing project, but one where admittedly not many of the other residents are Ivy graduates and former Fulbright scholars as she is. Additionally, she regards me as quite the villain in her current housing situation. In fact, I do theoretically have the wherewhithal to bail her out of these messes. But of course that money is supposed to be my kids' tuition money, my retirement money. Generally, it has been a pain in the ass to go and earn it over the past twenty years while she has been sitting on her kiester eating bon-bons and spending money on quack medicine, spur-of-the-moment consumer electronics purchases, and home remodeling. In spite of my evident disdain for her lack of foresight in getting into her bind, I did once buy an apartment that adjoined hers, as well as replacing her car recently, and sending her several thousand dollars over the years in emergency funds. Nevertheless, I am the bad guy, because I really just won't give her free access to my checking account. I even went so far as to put the proceeds from selling that apartment into a special fund, and I'm collecting the income from that fund for her eventual nursing care, its up to $20,000 bucks now. Here's the question: What is my moral obligation here, and am I meeting it? Is the fact that she's not happy, and thinks that having more money would make her happy really my problem? Yes, its true she's basically broke. But even when she has had money she hasn't been any happier. She spends it, which provides a momentary distraction, but she soon returns to misery, but with less money. Eventually she (just 70 now) is going to get sick or break a hip, or just drift into senility. Someone is going to be on the hook to pay for it. That someone is me. There are other kids, but they are all academics who don't have enough for their own lives much less hers. Her ex-husband whom she ditched 25 years ago, doesn't seem particularly eager to pony up big either. Reading over the above, I'm sure you'll ask why I don't mention her daughter, my dear wife, in this whole discussion. Unfortunately, she has sort of washed her hands of responsibility for her mom's happiness, except at those times when the emotional blackmail becomes very explicit and intense, at which point she passes the buck to me, to pass the bucks to her mom. She and her sisters have more or less given up on the notion of really helping their mom. She refuses any sort of counselling or medication, except for quack counselling at expensive meditation retreats, and quack medication such as blue-green algae based cures. (not joking.) Wondering How Guilty I Should Feel Dear WHGISF, Obviously you shouldn't feel guilty. If you'd done nothing in the past, if she were rotting away in a terrible nursing home and no one was visiting, if she weren't someone who spends every cent that's given to her immediately, then that would be another story. But what are you supposed to do for her? Buy her a place? I'm not really sure that the kind of woman who blows her nest egg and blames her son-in-law for it can be trusted with such gifts. If she were grateful and kind to you for the stuff you have done, if she had, over the years, tried to plan and save and be careful to take care of herself, that would be one thing. If she simply wanted more company and companionship, well, that's something that should be taken into account. But she doesn't want those things. She wants to sit around and bitch about what a bad guy you are, because she has nowhere else to put her self-loathing. Let's look at her kids: If they were remotely inclined to help, they could figure it out. They could discuss it, pool a little funds, and make something happen. Academics aren't well paid, but they are paid, and most people who plan and are careful can save money. If your wife came to you and said, "Look, I think we have to do something." then you'd have to consider it. But what is she doing? "It's your call"? So you can take the blame? I don't quite understand her role, but it sounds like she needs to take responsibility for her part in this. She shouldn't allow her mother to target you, if really, this stems from her crappy relationship with her mother and her mother's shitty relationship with money. Maybe she feels that, since you're extremely responsible with money (which it sounds like you are) then you're the one who makes the call on this. I don't know, though. This is her emotional equation, not yours. How can you be expected to make a good decision about someone who's merely a big pain in the ass in your life, who has no lasting emotional ties to you (thanks in large part to her bad attitude)? Your wife needs to define what she is and isn't willing to do -- for her own sake and for yours. Even if it's just a conversation between you two, you need to figure out where she stands in relation to her mother. She's going to freak out if her mom dies and she doesn't know if she's done the right thing or not, and she might blame you in retrospect. She needs to sort through her feelings and be clear about what she wants and what her boundaries are. But that's her work, not yours. Look, you've got $20k set aside just for your mother-in-law. Other than considering long term care insurance (maybe she's too old to afford such a policy) I don't see what you can do. I would maybe add to that fund a little more, so that you know you can bail her out of TRUE misery if needed. But what more can she ask for than that? Obviously she should've saved for her old age and not blown her nest egg, and obviously her kids are the ones who should be having tough conversations about what to do in case of emergency. Your wife needs to discuss it with them before something bad happens again and no one is prepared to handle it. You mentioned having to pay for college eventually. I assume you're putting as much as you can into some 529 funds for your kids -- this is one way to put the money out of reach, really, and maybe that'll also serve to assuage your guilt somewhat. If you've also been working for 20 years and haven't saved all that much for retirement yet, you'd better be maxing out your 401k and IRA contributions. Once those two things are taken care of (And personally, I'm a fan of throwing a lot into a college fund when a kid is small and then not worrying about it -- who wants to lament the cost of college for 18 years? Better to really scale back your spending now and relax moving forward) and you're making progress on paying off your house by the time you retire, then you can think about your mother in law if you want to. But retirement and college money are sort of essentials -- you can't really short change them without screwing your kids OR yourself and your wife. Now, if you have all kinds of money left over after that, and that makes you feel guilty, I suppose you could consider how you might improve her life. You could sit down with her and talk about what she really needs to feel better. Or you could just visit more often and see if that calms her down. Maybe she's just lonely and she copes by griping about money. But you know, some people get a hint that you're doing ok, and they're just twisted up inside over it. They want all that MONEY you have socked away! And you're so CHEAP! Not surprisingly, they're people who spent all of THEIR money already, and even if they made the money you did, they'd spend it all and want more regardless. Really, screw her. She sounds awful. Let your wife define the boundaries there. Sure, if you feel like you're the one person capable of sanity on that front (and honestly, it sounds like the other kids are either avoidant or they dislike their mother and want to maintain strong boundaries and keep her out of their lives), you could do what you can to clarify what might actually help her. But if you've already done that and she's still angry, fuck it. Don't let the fact that one person hates you make you unhappy. You're just a reasonably good, responsible person who expects to be treated with respect, and this woman is an anomaly in your life. This is really your wife's problem to solve. If she really really thinks you two should help more, after looking deep within herself, then obviously you'll consider that. But don't let this woman compromise your future and the future of your kids just because she's angry and has nothing better to do than blame someone else for all of her mistery. Best of luck. Rabbit 12:25 PM Wednesday, February 06, 2008 WHAT DO WE WANT? COOKIE! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW! From an article in The New York Times about a book called "The Happiest Toddler on the Block": [A] toddler throwing a tantrum over a cookie might wail, “I want it. I want it. I want cookie now.” Often, a parent will adopt a soothing tone saying, “No, honey, you have to wait until after dinner for a cookie.” Such a response will, almost certainly, make matters worse. “It’s loving, logical and reasonable,” notes Dr. Karp. “And it’s infuriating to a toddler. Now they have to say it over harder and louder to get you to understand.” Dr. Karp adopts a soothing, childlike voice to demonstrate how to respond to the toddler’s cookie demands. “You want. You want. You want cookie. You say, ‘Cookie, now. Cookie now.’" 12:07 PM THE CONSTANT CHAUNCEY GARDNER Dear Rabbit, Thanks for the HuffPost link to the satire on Obama. Baldwin's bloviation couldn't get around the fact that this was a genuinely funny takedown of Obama's magnificent nothingness and coy dancing around race. The Obama phenom reminds me of nothing as much as the movie and book "Being There." An emptiness that empty people yearn to believe is somethingness. RW Dear RW, Yes, calling Obama "YoMama"? That was fucking genius! I laughed and laughed and rolled on the floor laughing, and then I picked myself up and dusted myself off and proceeded to live in my happy little racist honky bubble for the rest of my pathetic life. Hurray! Why does silly Obama repeat that stupid word CHANGE all the time? What's so important or special about CHANGE? OK, fine, we're stuck in two wars with no end in sight while creeping closer to a third, we've run decades of international diplomacy into the ground in a few short years, we're sliding into a major recession, we're fucking the environment and our legislators are thoroughly corrupted by corporate interests. But still. CHANGE! What an empty word! And HOPE. Why would we cling to HOPE, when clearly our country is HOPELESS? What's that guy Obama's fucking problem anyway? Rabbit 10:35 AM Monday, January 28, 2008 RACE TO THE BOTTOM Aww. It's so comforting to know that America is just as racist as it's always seemed. No, it's not all in your head after all! Just take a gander at this wonderful bit of comedy, pointed out to us by Alec Baldwin, who blogs for Huffpost and also... let's see, he has a career doing something else, I can't remember what. You knew it was only a matter of time. But don't listen to me, go read Baldwin's news clipping. Do it. Trust me, it's eye-opening stuff. You really don't want to miss it. You'll feel like it's 1968 all over again. Whether that gives you a thrill or makes you sick to your stomach really depends on your constitution. Welcome back, racism. I hope you're ready to get your ass handed to you, because we're not going to put up with your horseshit this time around. 3:39 PM Wednesday, January 16, 2008 AUTOMATIC BREADMAKER Dear Rabbit, Two summers ago, I met a wonderful woman, in a thousand ways my perfect match, and in a thousand other ways better; ethical, compassionate, witty & gorgeous too, a good family girl. Before the end of the year, my plan was to ask her to marry me, but in recent days there's been a little hiccup. It seems shortly after we moved in together, around the time we first started talking casually about marriage, around the time her financial situation hit an all-time low -- probably out of desperation -- she became aware of an nagging unexpressed expectation that I would pay for what were previously considered joint expenses, then when the marriage became truly imminent we would merge all our assets, just like her parents had done, and then her sizable debt -- she has a sizable debt -- would suddenly become our debt. But instead of mentioning any of this, or her need for a loan from me, allowing me the opportunity to be generous in a way that I've never shied away from -- gladly paying for all our dinners & lunches out, all our new furniture, our nights out/vacation expenses/sometimes the fuel in her car -- she just let our other joint bills (gas/electric/phone/groceries) passive-aggressively pile-up in the coffee jar, resenting the fact that I wasn't being an even bigger, generous, manly-man. I should back up and report that my girlfriend is no manipulative, advantage-taking brat (like I said, unless her recent financial woes have changed her for the worse). She’s never previously been anything of the sort - which makes this situation all the more confounding! We share the same profession. We share the same socio-economic background. We make the same money when we're both working. She knows I have no secret stash that would settle all this. In fact, we talk about the limitations of our profession and how in short order we're going to be out on the streets if we don't back ourselves up with several impossible real estate purchases or career shifts (we've considered going to graduate school so that we might someday end up with a real benefits package). I've been very out in the open with my limited finances, and yet my generosity is unprecedented; that, according to her. In fact, every month I put away the difference between my last apartment's expenses and my current one’s. So far I've saved a few thousand dollars, and each month I report to my girlfriend what I plan to do with that money; with no uncertain amount of cockeyed optimism I tell her I plan to put it toward a down payment on a house for us. Me! The big man! Mr. Big Shot! Who am I if not a mensch? And yet now I find myself having to roll out that good guy resume, having been denied the opportunity to be that guy -- and more -- before she started building up a preposterous unspoken position for why I should start paying down her debt, and judging me in the interim. Suddenly I feel unappreciated and insulted. Rabbit, did she set me up? Was I setting myself up? Did we pull a number on ourselves? She has a vague awareness of the irrationality of her expectations. And in keeping with that has pursued as many as three different tacks when restating her feelings on the matter. She cites the modeling of her parents; her dad was the single bread-winner while her mother stayed at home. My girlfriend even recounts a traumatizing event when her father dragged her by the ear as a child to show her all the things in the house he’d paid for; how dare she complain about not being allowed to go with her friends on a ski trip! I see this awareness as promising, but I'm hoping for more before I propose marriage. I have a buddy who's been sitting on an engagement ring for nearly three years, waiting for his girlfriend to somehow qualify in his eyes. I don't want to be that guy. Sure, money worries me (people’s relationship to money is deeply personal, vague, and remains largely unexplored - it looks as though I’ve avoided the inevitable for too long). The truth is, I might even get reactionary when confronted with being thought of as anything other than my highest ideal, and, in this case, at the proposition of footing another person’s debt. But more than that, the level of bad communication here and accompanying unconscious, subterranean, activity, terrifies me. This morning we made plans for couples' counseling -- she complained that she hadn't the necessary tools to go after this. In the end, it's a fairly common problem I'm sure a lot of 40+ year old couples coming together for the first time run into, right Rabbit? It's hardly infidelity or homicide or bulima or shoplifting - as far as troubles go, it doesn't rank, right? But still... I don't want to go into this thing without a fairly unencumbered horizon. Or without an awareness of my role in things. You wanna know what I REALLY think, Rabbit? I think even the best people, the most enlightened ones even, are still rife with so many parental issues they can barely walk straight. I see it in people I work with. They're so proud, it kills them that they sometimes require a handout (or less: the benefit of a colleague's experience); making themselves open to attacks of inferiority; they'll do anything they can -- including setting-up an otherwise gracious individual -- than to face their small measure of dependence. Hence my girlfriend’s arbitrary decision to keep paying her half of the rent. To do otherwise would have been too ego-deflating for her, and in her mind, would open her up to poisonous attacks that never, in reality, come (certainly not from me). And you wanna know something else, Rabbit? I think even the most enlightened other kinds of people can’t stand the possibility that they might be considered creeps, they bend over backwards to make their partners happy, even to the detriment of the relationship. That’s what I really think. But more importantly, what do YOU think? (I’m only pretending to know everything). Your loyal servant, Not A Creep Dear Not A Creep, You don't sound like a creep, you sound like a loyal servant -- a role that might serve you even worse than being a creep would. In every single relationship on the planet, the two parties involved eventually have to confront their very different views of money and ways of handling financial challenges. It's rare that this process is incited by anything but strife. Money just isn't something that you sit down and discuss all that often when you're dating or even living together. Until there's a snag, you suspend disbelief, assuming that you're compatible and you're both generous and there never will be a problem. Those couples who argue about money? They don't get along about anything, they just use money as an excuse to throw some plates at the wall. Eventually, though, if you're in a serious relationship, the money issue comes up. First of all, the landscape has changed drastically since our parents were young. Very few individuals can single-handedly support a spouse and pay for the expenses of an entire household without a second income. Housing costs are too high for that. Add to that the fact that we live in a country that's utterly twisted when it comes to money, where ordinary people with ordinary incomes are tempted every few seconds to spend more than they can afford. Despite the crumbling housing market and the perils of easy credit, I still get at least two offers of massive home equity loans every day. These days, we're led to believe that we're incredibly frugal if we're putting a little into our 401ks and have a tiny, tiny bit of money saved for emergencies, instead of being in serious debt. If you have a two or three thousand saved, that doesn't mean that you're a penny pincher. It means that you should probably try a little harder to save more. You're right that money is always unconscious, subterranean, uncharted, difficult to understand, and often terrifying. Even if you and your honey are fantastic with money, I think you have to work hard, in any relationship, not to allow money to come between you. You have to work hard to even come close to understanding someone else's approach to money. For example, you cite your girlfriend's experience with her dad, showing her all the shit he paid for, as reflecting her awareness of her preconceptions about money. Even if she's aware, though, what I see is a bad precedent: She hated having his generosity lorded over her, yet her actions make it clear that she's anxious for you to assume the same role. Even though you've steadfastly refused to resent the responsibility you've had to take for all of your extracurricular expenses as a couple, even though you've demonstrated your generosity over and over, she's still ready to push you to take responsibility for everything. Sure, she's paying half of the rent (stubbornly? Why is that stubborn?), but she's saving all the bills in a jar. She wants you to take it all off her hands, like a good husband does. Now, these expectations don't make her a bad person, of course. But some unconscious part of her emotional make-up is compelled, somehow, to push you into the role of beleaguered head of household. If you give in to her guilt-inducing, "Be my hero!" breakdowns, you'll end up on the wrong track. The issue is not whether or not you'll help with her debt. If you're determined to marry her, listen, you're going to help chip away at that debt whether you like it or not. That's just the way it works. You won't be able to make any kinds of goals for yourselves until you both make a serious, long-term plan for tackling the debt. But that doesn't mean that you're not helping her to conquer her debt. If she can't acknowledge that you're helping, that her debt is setting your plans back a few beats, that she was irresponsible with money and now you have to work together and deny yourselves the things you want to clean up the mess, then she wants a magical dream husband, not an ordinary man. If she can't say, "OK, you're right, I screwed up, I really, really need your help, and I'll be very thankful when I get it," then she's cornering you into taking responsibility for her indefinitely. Some people do this without wanting to. I worry, though, about what happens in five years. Does she want to have kids or adopt? In some part of her mind, are you going to keep working while she takes time off to have kids or to be a housewife? It doesn't sound like you'll be able to afford that anytime soon, but is she living in a fantasy world about how marriage will save her from the working world? A startling number of women have this fantasy, even when all the facts point to its impossibility. If you don't gently assert your boundaries now, you'll become the kind of person who'll drag his kid, by the ear, and show them all the shit his hard work has paid for. And as a natural born loyal servant, you're custom-made to become an angry, whiny martyr. I'm not saying she consciously wants you to be that person, or that you wouldn't consciously fight that tooth and nail. But without a concrete plan, without a close look at the problem, you and she both want magic to happen. You want to magically be the hero, and she wants to magically be saved. Neither of you want to have to discuss money, you want it all to be romantic and pretty without any need for talk. So, first and foremost, you have to give up on being the valiant hero, and your girlfriend needs to face the fact that marriage is not going to solve her money problems forever and ever, amen. You don't have to accept these things simply because you don't have enough money. This part is important, so listen up: Having more money doesn't make this picture any different. Somehow, when money is involved, no one gets to be the hero, whether they're incredibly generous or unnaturally cheap or ridiculously resentful, whether they're incredibly rich or totally poor. Money rips off the red cape, sooner or later. It won't let you save the day. Rich guys who can pay for everything end up feeling crappy about it at some point. Poor guys who can't do shit end up feeling crappy. Someone like you, who's careful, can't save the day, but you'll try and try and you'll hate yourself for failing, and eventually you'll hate her, too. That doesn't mean you don't have a decent relationship, or that you shouldn't marry her. It doesn't mean that you should angrily tell her she's trying to make you into her father, she's nuts, she's got issues, whatever. Don't get dirty where money is concerned. Be gentle, but be clear about what you're committed to and what you need from her in order to help. You have to assert very clear boundaries, and stick to them. If you're busting your ass to fix this problem, she can't go out and spend money on random stuff. You have to agree on a budget. And I don't really see why you should pay for all of your meals and vacations. Because you have a penis, you have to pay for the extras, when you make the same amount? I'm sorry, but times have changed. She wants to be treated as an equal, doesn't she? The price of a liberated man is, oh, about half of that expensive dinner bill! Again, don't go and lay down the law or anything, because that's laying the groundwork for the kind of dynamic she had with her father. Just go to counseling, like you planned, and sort through this stuff. Try not to get too ugly about it. People don't have a lot of control over their freakiness with money -- it's by nature irrational terrain. Be patient. But assert your needs, and try to come up with a plan, together, for getting back on equal footing with money, agreeing on what your goals are in the short and long term, and setting up a savings and debt-pay-off schedule. Also, a bit of gratuitous advice? Get married in someone's backyard, or rent a huge house at the beach for a week and ask close friends and family to chip in instead of giving you a wedding present, or hire an In-and-Out Burger Wagon to cater an event at a park. Don't add $20k to your shared debts for one day of semi-stressful fun. Everyone in your family will admire your restraint, trust me, and they'll have just as good a time at a low-frills party as they would at an overpriced hotel that serves shitty food anyway (and caterers are usually even worse at making 100 great meals at once than hotels are. Unless you pay out the ass for a caterer, which you shouldn't, the food will probably disappoint you). Personally, I'd rather have a great burger than a cold piece of overcooked wedding chicken any day of the week. I can tell that you're already committed to this woman, and you really think she's a catch, so I'm definitely not advising you to rethink that commitment. I do think you need to press her to be honest, and you need to pay close attention to her ability to listen and understand you and make room for your emotions when you're being honest. If she gets angry every time you express yourself, and she stubbornly holds onto this picture where you're the hero who fixes everything? Well, she doesn't want a marriage to a mortal. She wants to move into the Barbie Dream House with Ken. So be very kind and sweet to her throughout this tough time, but be firm and assert yourself with calm confidence. It's crucial to your happiness that you stand up for yourself and shed this notion that you can or should be a hero, because you'll end up a very unhappy, angry (albeit very loyal) servant. Very best of luck to you and your honey. My guess is that you two will be just fine, and that this will be a really rich (though difficult) time that will help you to grow even closer. Rabbit 12:30 PM Friday, January 11, 2008 HARD TIMES Are spreadin' just like the flu! Watch out, home boy, don't let it catch you! P-p-p-prices go up, don't let your pocket go down, When you got short money, you're stuck on the ground, So turn around, get ready, keep your eye on the clock, And be on point for the future shock! When I was in the 9th grade, this shy kid on my bus named Devo let me borrow his tape of Run-DMC, and this was my favorite rap on the tape. When the other kids on the bus heard us whispering the lyrics together, they'd say, "That shit is old!" like we were assholes to be stuck on a rap that came out 2 years earlier, but we didn't care. Devo needed a friend on the bus because he was sort of nerdy and really big - maybe 250 pounds and 6 feet tall. I needed a friend because I was one of maybe three white kids on the bus, plus I was a cheerleader, which meant that two days a week during basketball season, I wore a cheerleading uniform to school. Getting on that bus in my fucking tiny skirt, some of the girls would glare at me like maybe they should kick my ass, so I tried very hard to demonstrate that I was just some chumpy white girl with no ego, no pride, and nothing to prove. Some of the apartments we visited were seriously shitty-looking and pretty crime-ridden, so even when kids yelled that I had skinny fucking chicken legs and anyway there weren't enough black girls on the cheerleading squad (2 out of 10 were black, but the black-white split at the school was probably more like 40%-60%), I reminded myself that they had every reason to want to kick my ass, lily white bitch who didn't live in the apartment complexes and but for some reason caught the bus there. (My dad lived in the school district, but I lived most of the time with my mom, so I caught the closest bus to school about a mile from my mom's house.) Today I can't get those Hard Times lyrics out of my head. Why does talk of recession put me in such a goddamn fine mood? I've been cleaning the house more often, and planting stuff in the yard, and looking for ways to cook cheap meats. I've always wondered about London Broil: What the fuck do you do with it? A few days ago I found a marinade on Epicurious, soaked that slab of